CIHM 
Microfiche 
Series 
(Monographs) 


ICIVIH 

Collection  de 
microfiches 
(monographies) 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microraproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  da  microraproductions  historiquas 


1996 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


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I      I   Coloured  pages  /  Pages  de  couleur 

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D 

0 

D 
0 

D 
D 
D 


D 


Pages  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Pages  restaur^s  et/ou  pellicul^es 

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D 


This  Kam  is  f  ilmad  at  th«  reduction  ratio  chockad  below  / 

Ce  documant  aat  filmA  au  taux  de  riduction  indlquA  ci-deaaoua. 


lOx 

14x 

18x 

22x 

26x 

30x 

•y 

12x 


16x 


20x 


24x 


28x 


32x 


Th«  copy  filmed  h«r«  has  b««n  reproduced  thanks 
to  tha  gsnsrosity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'sxsmplairs  film*  fut  raproduit  grica  *  la 
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Bibliotheque  nationale  du  Canada 


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sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
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first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
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or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  freme  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — ^  (meening  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc..  may  be  filmed  at 
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beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
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required.  Tht  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  M  raproduitas  avac  Is 
plus  grand  soin,  compta  tanu  de  la  condition  at 
de  la  nettet*  de  I'exemplaira  film*,  et  an 
conformity  avac  lea  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmaga. 

Lea  exempleires  originsux  dont  la  couvsrtura  an 
papier  est  imprimie  sont  filmAs  en  commencant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminent  soit  par  la 
derniAre  pege  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  la  second 
plat,  salon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autras  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film^  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  emprsinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  derni*re  page  qui  comporte  una  telle 
omprainta. 

Un  das  symbolea  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
darniAre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  salon  le 
cas:  le  symbols  — »  signifie  "A  SUIVRE".  le 
symbole  ▼  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartaa,  planches,  ubieaux,  etc.,  peuvent  atra 
f ilm^s  *  das  taux  de  reduction  diff  Arents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  iv 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich*,  il  est  film*  *  pertir 
de  Tangle  sup*rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  *  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n*cessaira.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m*thede. 


1 

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MICROCOPY    RESOIUTION    TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No   2) 


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'-as  (716)   462  -  0300  -  P'-one 

^^  (716)   288  -  5989   -  'at 


MARGOT  ASgUITH 

AN    AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

IN   TWO  VOLUMES 

WITH  TWENTY  FOUR  ILLUSTRATIONS 

AND    NUMEROUS   REPRODUCTIONS   OF 

ORIGINAL  DRAWINGS 


Psalm  xxxix 

5.  VeriJy  every  man  at  his  best  state  is  altogether  vanity. 

6.  Surely  every  man  walketh  in  a  vain  shew:  surely 
they  are  disquieted  in  vain:  he  heapeth  up  riches,  and 
knoweth  not  who  shall  gather  them. 

7.  And  now.  Lord,  what  wait  I  for  ?  my  hope  is  in  Thee. 


/' 


■  r.      >"&      -I 


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--!«=l 


MA«noT,  l»;.U)i.v<;  simhit  m    in,:  .oris 
(PEXCIL  DRAWlN.i  BV  THE    MAKllnoyESS 
OF  (IRANBV,  DtTin:s«  ()|    H,    II   WU, 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


VOLUME  TWO 


•■.  i%' 


P 


NEW  YORK:    GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
TORONTO:   McCLELLANI  U  STEWART 


i. 


Df,S(«fe 

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O^ 

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(70  0 

V.5 

COPYRICHT,     1920, 
BY  OEORtJK    H.   UORAN   COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 


CONTEN-re  OP 
VOLUME  TWO 


CHAPTKR  II 
Chahacteb  Sketch  ok  \fAHG„i--r 

M--  MA«.n  o.  j;r.::r  j™';  ?;r  ^  ''^°^"'"- 

PHCMT  -"  »RHy— ilixLEv's  Blah- 

CHAPTER  m 

fAM  AND  PrHIO-  H  n.vri.vo  IV   I  r„  . 

Uor  Man.vem      .     .  '    '''"'^^■"""■P  WITH    Lord  and 


II 


77 


CHAPTER  IV 
Maroot  Palm  in  Love  Aoa.v-' ii. ,     •• 

A-^vicE  rRoM  A  R,VAr-A  Lo  .«^.  or     *'^"  ""=  '■^"^^-^^ 
I>A8K  Woman    .     .  "  ^'•'"^:  Ii-i-fMiNAT.oN  from  a 

T,       ,  CHAPTER  V 

[v] 


131 


1S7 


N 


I 


CONTENTS 

Time — Talk  Till  Dawn  ov  House  or  Commons'  Terrace; 
Other  Meetings— Engagement  a  London  Sensation— Mar- 
BUOE  AN  Event 

CHAPTER  VI 

The    AsQL^TH    Children    dy    the    First    Marruge— Margot's 

-Memory  of  the  First  Mrs.  AsyriTn — 

-Arthur's  Heroism  in  the  War 


Stefdaiuhtkr  Violet 
Raymond's  Brillunt  Career- 


191 


208 


CHAPTER  Vri 

Visit  to  Woman's  Prison— Interview  There  with  1V(rs.  Maybrick 
~S(  ENE  in  a  Likehs  Cell;  the  Husdand  Who  \evek  Knew 
Thought  Wife  Made  Money  Sf-    ng— Marciot's  Plea  that 


Failed 


r.i7 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Margot's  First  Baby  and  Its  Loss— Dangerous  Illness— Letter 
FR<,M  Queen  Vk tohia— Sir \\ illiam IIarcourts Pleasantries 

— AsQUITH  M-NISTRY  FaLLS- ViSIT  FROM  DuCHESS  D'AoSTA    .        .       iS  1 

CHAITER  IX 

Margot  in  1906  Sums  Ip  Her  Like;  a  Lot  op  Love-making,  a 


Little  Fame  and  More  Abuse:  a  Real  Man  and  Great  Hap- 
piness  


265 


[vi] 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OF 
VOLUME  TWO 

Mabgot,  Leading  Spirit  of  the  Souui.    Pencil  Dhawino  by  the 

DUCHE88  OF  Rctland Fwnthpiece 

The  Right  Honourable  Arthur  James  Balfour,  ab  He  Appeared 

IN  THE  House  of  Commons  Durin-g  the  SO's 14 

Ladt  Debbohough,  Whom  Mabgot  Calm  the  Clevekest  Woman 

IN  England ^g 

Stanza  Written  bt  Lord  Tennyson  for  Margot  at  Aldwohth, 

1884:  Hitherto  Unpubushed  Tribute  to  Sib  Walter  Scott      51 

Godfrey    Webb:    Member   of   the   Souls   and  Godfather  of 

Princess  Bibesco g^ 

Earl  of  Pembroke,  Member  of  the  Souls 97 

Lord  Midleton,  Better  Knoi^tn  as  St.  John  Brodbick,  Fobmeb 

Secretary  OF  State  for  War 1 12 

John  Addington  Stmonds,  Who  Encouraged  Margot's  Literary 

Endeavoubs 1J2 

Viscount  Grey  of  Fallodon,  Friend  op  the  Asquith  Family,  and 
Secretary  of  State  for  Foreign  Affairs  When  England 
Sent  the  Ultimatum  to  Germ.\ny  in  1914 145 

W.  E.  Gladstone,  Great  Liberal  Statesman,  Whose  Nephew 
Arthur  Lyttleton  Married  Laur-i  Tennant,  Margot's 
Sister Iqq 

Four  Generations  of  England's  Royal  Family:  Queen  Victoria, 

King  Edward  VH,  King  George  V,  and  the  Prince  of  Wales     177 

Herbert  Henry  Asquith,  as  He  Was  When  He  Resigned  the 

Premiership  to  Lloyd  George  During  the  War       ....     192 

Raymond  Asquith,  Son  of  Herbert  Henry  Asquith  by  His  First 

Mabruge.    He  Was  Killed  in  Belgium  During  the  War  192 

[vii] 


'it  I 


ii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Announcement  in  "The  New  Yobk  Herald"  of  the  Engagement  "" 
OP  Margot  Tennant  AND  Hebbeht  Henry  AsQiiTH      .     .     .     seoi 

Princess  Bibesco,  Mahgot  Asquiths  Only  Datjghteb,  Who  Mar- 
ried Prince  Bibesco,  Ri  m.\nian  Diplomat g^ 

Home  Secbetauies,  Past  and  Present 243 

Mabgot  Asquith  and  Her  Son  Anthony,  Whose  Inflvevce  Over 
Heb,  She  Says  in  Hee  Diaby,  Has  Been  Greater  Than  That 
op  Any  Other  Human  Being g^j, 


[viii] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 
AN   AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


I 


'I 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  SOULS-LORD  CUIWON's  POEM  AND  DINNER 
PARTY  AND  ^A'HO  WERE  THERE— MAHGOT's  IN- 
VENTORY OF  THE  GHOUr-TILT  WITH  THE  LATE 
LADY  LONDONDERRY— VISIT  TO  TENNYSON'  HIS 
CONTEMPT  FOR  CRITICS;  HIS  HABIT  OF  LIVING- 
t.^^  ^"  ^'^"^'  '^  SOUL— MARGOT'S  FRIENDSHIP 
r."/""''  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS;  HIS  PRAISE 
Oi  MARIE  BASHKIRTSEFF 

■^O  one  ever  knew  how  it  came  about  that  I  and 
my  particular  friends  were  called  "the  Souls." 
The  origin  of  our  grouping  together  I  have  already 
explained:  we  saw  more  of  one  another  than  we 
should  probably  have  done  had  my  sister  Laura 
Lyttelton  lived,  because  we  were  in  mourning  and 
did  not  care  to  go  out  in  general  society;  but  why 
we  were  called  "Souls"  I  do  not  know. 

The  fashionabl^what  was  called  the  "smart 

[11] 


I 


I 


I: 


4j 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

set"— of  those  days  centred  round  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  afterwards  Kin^  Edward  VII.,  and  had 
Newmarket  for  its  head-quarters.  As  far  as  I  could 
see,  there  was  more  exclusiveness  in  the  racing 
world  than  I  had  ever  observed  among  the  Souls- 
and  the  first  and  only  time  I  went  to  Newmarket 
the  welcome  extended  to  me  by  the  shrewd  and 
select  company  there  made  me  feel  exactly  like  an 
alien. 

We  did  not  play  bridge  or  baccarat  and  our 
rather  intellectTial  and  literary  after-dinner  games 
were  looked  upon  as  j)retentious. 

Arthur  Balfour-the  most  <listinguished  of  the 
Souls  and  idolised  by  every  set  in  s,K>iety-was  the 
person  who  drew  the  enemy's  fire.    He  had  been 
well  known  before  he  came  among  us  and  it  was 
considered  an  impertinence  on  our  part  to  make 
him  play  pencil-games  or  be  our  intellectual  guide 
and  critic.    Nearly  all  the  young  men  in  my  circle 
were  clever  and  became  famous;  and  the  women 
although  not  more  intelligent,  were  less  worldly 
than  their  fashionable  conven.poraries  and  many  of 
them  both  good  to  be  with  and  distinguished  to 
look  at. 

What  interests  me  most  on  looking  back  now  at 
[12] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


those  ten  years  is  the  loyalty,  devotion  and  fidelity 
whieh  we  showed  to  one  another  and  the  pleasure 
which  we  derived  from  friendships  that  eould  not 
have  survived  a  week  had  they  been  accompanied 
hy  gossip,   mcK-king.   or  any  personal   pettiness. 
Mr  t  of  us  had  a  depth  of  feeling  and  moral  and 
religious  amhition  which  are  entirely  lacking  in 
the  clever  young  men  and  women  of  to-day.    Our 
aftcr-dmner  games  were  healthier  and  more  inspir- 
ing than  theirs.    "Breaking  the  news,"  for  instance 
was  an  entertaimnent  that  had  a  certain  vogue' 
among  the  younger  generation  before  the  war     It 
consisted  of  two  people  acting  together  and  con- 
veying to  their  audience  various  ways  in  which 
they  would  receive  the  news  of  the  sudden  death 
of  a  friend  or  a  relation  and  was  considered  extra- 
ordinarily fumiy;  it  would  never  have  amused  any 
of  the  Souls.    The  modern  habit  of  pursuing,  de- 
tecting and  exposing  what  was  ridiculous  in  simple 
people  and  the  unkind  and  irreverent  manner  in 
which  slips  were  made  material  for  epigram  were 
unbearable  to  n,-.    This  school  of  thought-which 
the  young  group  called   "anticanf-encouraged 
hard  sayings  and  light  doings,  which  would  have 
profoundly  shocked  the  most  frivolous  among  us. 

[13] 


:1 


S 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Brilliance  of  a  certain  kind  may  bring  people  tc 
gether  for  amusement,  but  it  will  not  keep  them 
together  for  long;  and  the  young,  hard  pre-war 
group  that  I  am  thinking  of  was  short-lived. 

The  present  Lord  Curzon*  also  drew  the  enemy's 
fire  and  was  probably  more  directly  rrsponsible  for 
the  name  of  the  Souls  than  any  one. 

He  was  a  conspicuous  young  man  of  abiUty, 
^th  a  ready  pen.  a  ready  tongue,  an  exceUent  sense 
of  humour  in  private  life  and  intrepid  social  bold- 
ness.   He  had  appearance  more  than  looks,  a  keen, 
lively  face,  with  an  expression  of  enamelled  self- 
assurance.    Like  every  young  man  of  exceptioma 
promise,  he  was  called  a  prig.    The  word  was  so 
misapplied  in  those  days  that,  had  I  been  a  clever 
>->ung  man.  I  should  have  felt  no  confidence  in 
myself  till  the  world  had  called  me  a  prig     He 
was  a  remarkably  inteUigent  person  in  an  excep- 
tional generation.    He  had  ambition  and-what  he 
claimed  for  himself  in  a  briUiant  description- 
middle-class  method";  and  he  added  to  a  kindly 
feelmg  for  other  people  a  warm  comer  for  himself 
Some  of  my  friends  thought  his  contemporaries  in 
the  House  of  Commons,  George  Wyndham  and 

•Earl  Cuwon  of  Kedleston. 
[14] 


i'pi 


M 


m 


THE  «,OHT  HO.VO«ABU;  AETHIH  JAMVM  BALFO- 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Harry  Cust,  would  go  farther,  as  the  former  prom- 
ised more  originality  and  the  latter  was  a  finer 
scholar,  but  T  always  said— and  have  a  record  of 
it  in  my  earliest  diaries— that  George  C  -wn  would 
easUy  outstrip  his  rivals.    He  had  two  incalculable 
advantages  over  them:  he  was  chronical'y  indus- 
trious and  self-sufficing;  and.  though  Oriental  in 
his  ideas  of  colour  and  -ereniony.  with  a  poor  sense 
of  proportion,  and  a  childish  love  of  fine  people, 
he  was  never  self-indulgent.    He  neither  ate.  drank 
nor  smoked  to  much  and  left  nothin^-  to  chance. 

No  one  could  +urn  with  mor.i  elasticity  from 
work  to  play  than  George  Curzon;  he  was  a  first- 
rate  host  and  boon  companion  and  showed  me 
and  mine  a  steady  and  sympathetic  love  over  a 
long  period  of  years.  Even  now,  if  I  died,  although 
he  belongs  to  the  more  conventional  and  does  not 
allow  himself  to  mix  with  people  of  opposite  politi- 
cal parties,  he  would  write  my  obituary  notice. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  am  telling,  he  was 
threatened  with  lung  trouble  and  was  ordered  to 
Switzerland  by  his  doctors.  We  were  very  unhappy 
and  assembled  at  a  farewell  banquet,  to  which  he 
entertained  us  in  the  Bachelors'  Club,  on  the  10th 
of  July,  1889.    We  found  a  poem  welcoming  us 

[15] 


/  i 


4 


r'ih 


MARUOT  ASgUITII 

on  our  chnirs.  when  we  snt  cic.wn  l<,  dinner,  in  whieh 
we  were  all  lu>n<.i.rai.Iy  an<!  .•ateK..ricaIly  men- 
tioned.  Sonic  of  o„r  eriHes  ealle«l  ns  "the  Gan^" 
—to  which  alh.sion  is  made  here—hut  we  were 
ullinmtely  known  as  the  Souls. 

This  famous  diuner  and  (Jeorge's  poem  caused  a 
lot  of  fun  and  friction,  jealousy,  curiosity  and  end- 
Iv  'iscussion.  It  was  followed  two  years  later 
by  anc*!.er  dinner  ^iven  by  the  san.e  h<»st  to  the 
same  guests  and  in  the  same  plate,  on  the  Oth  of 
July,  1891. 

The  repetition  of  this  dinner  was  more  than  the 
^Vest  Knd  of  London  could  stand  and  I  was 
the  object  of  much  obKK,uy.  I  remember  dining 
with  Sir  Stanley  and  Lady  Clarke  to  meet  King 
Edward~the,i  Prince  of  VVales-when  my  hostess 
said  to  nic  m  a  loud  voice,  across  the  table: 

"There  were  sonic  clever  people  in  the  world,  you 
know,  before  you  were  born,  JMiss  Tennant!" 

Feeling  rather  nettled.  I  replied: 

"Please  don't  pick  me  out,  Lady  Clarke,  as  if  I 
alone  were  responsible  for  the  stupid  ones  among 
whom  we  find  ourselves  to-day." 

Having  no  suspicion  of  other  people,  I  was  sel- 
[16} 


4.* 


AN  AIT()UIUC;HA1»IIY 

dom  on  tin-  <ltlVnsivc  and  did  not  incun  to  be  rude, 
but  I  was  yoiin^  and  iiilok-rant. 
This  wus  George  Cmzon's  poem: 

10th  JVIA,  1880. 


Ho!  list  to  n  hiy 

Of  that  company  gay, 
Compoimded  of  gallants' and  ^accs, 

Who  gathered  to  dine, 

In  the  year  '89. 
In  a  haunt  that  in  Hamilton  Place  is. 

There,  there  where  they  met. 
And  the  banquet  was  set 

At  the  l)idding  of  Gkoh(;ii  s  C'lnizoN; 
Brave  youth!  'tis  his  |)ride, 
When  lie  errs,  that  the  side 

Of  respectable  licence  he  errs  on. 

iVround  liim  that  night — 
Was  there  e'er  sucii  a  sights 

Souls  sparkled  and  spirits  expanded; 
For  of  tliem  critics  sang. 
That  tho'  christened  the  (Jang, 

By  a  spiiitiial  link  they  wxre  banded. 

Souls  and  spirits,  no  doubt 

But  neithei  without 
Fair  visible  temples  to  dwell  in! 

E'en  your  iniiage  divine 

Must  be  girt  with  a  shrine, 
For  the  pious  to  linger  a  spell  in. 


[17] 


■'k 


'I'l 


I:  si, 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

There  vyas  seen  at  that  feast 
\n  this  band,  the  Ilirrli  Priest 

TheWtthattoallhearfsisnefr'est; 
lliin  may  nobody  steal 

Thn'^f'""'  V'-  *';"^  ^^^'nmon  weal, 

Iho  to  each  is  dear  Ahthuk^  the  dearest. 

America  lends, 

^uohl""^''  "''^  ^'''^'  ""'^^n  she  sends 
i^uch  treasures  as  Harry  ^  and  Daisy  ='• 
Iho  many  may  yearn, 
A  one  but  Harry  can  turn 
That  sweet  Jittle  head  of  hers  crazy. 

There  was  much-envied  Steath' 

Y?*'^  the  lady^*  who  hath 
Taught  us  all  what  may  life  be  at  twenty; 

t)f  pleasure  a  taste,  ^ ' 

Of  duty  no  waste, 
Of  gentle  philosophy  plenty. 

Kitty  Drummoxd  *  was  there- 
n  here  was  Lawrence,"  oh!  where?— 
And  my  Lord'-  and  my  Lady  Granby' ; 
Is  there  one  of  the  Gang 

Tu  A      ""*  "^^P*  -'»*  tJ^e  pang 
Ihat  he  never  can  Violet's  man  be? 

From  WiLTox,  whose  streams 
■The  Hi.ht  H  '";"t  '''''''*  '"  «"^  dreams. 

lUe  H'Kht  Hon.  A.  J.  Balfour. 
Air.  and  Mrs.  White. 

•S"  ?n"H''\r''  ,"'";!'"^  "^  Sutherland. 
U»J.  and  Mrs.  L.  D-unn.iond. 

Now  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Rutland 

[18] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Come  the  Earl"  and  his  Countess«  together- 
In  her  spirit's  proud  flights 
We  are  whirled  to  the  lieights, 
tie  sweetens  our  stay  in  the  nether. 

Dear  Evvx^  was  there. 

The  first  choice  of  the  fair, 
To  all  but  himself  very  gentle! 

And  Asiiridge's  lord  * 

Most  insufferably  bored 
With  manners  and  modes  Oriental. 

The  Shah,  I  would  bet, 

In  the  East  never  met 
Such  a  couple  as  him  and  his  consort.' 

If  the  HoRXEHs"  you  add, 

That  a  man  must  be  mad 
Who  complains  that  the  Gang  is  a  wrong  sort. 

From  kindred  essay 

Lady  Mary^*'  to-day 
Should  have  beamed  on  a  world  that  adores  her 

Ut  her  spouse*"  debonair 

No  woman  has  e'er 
Been  able  to  say  that  he  bores  her. 

Next  BiNGY  "  escorts 
His  dear  wife,"  to  our  thoughts 
Never  lost,  though  withdrawn  from  our  vision 

Earl  and  Countfss  of  Pembroke. 
'Hon.  Evan  Charteris. 
•Earl  and  Countess  Brownlow. 
•Sir  J.  and  Lady  Horner. 

'^i^li  Z  ilZ  Sit""  ^"'  ^'  ^''""^-^  «>'  w-y«)- 

[19] 


<i 


k 


M 


« 

I 
I 


'1; 


I. 


I  i 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

While  of  late  she  has  shown 
That  of  spirit  alone 
Was  not  fashioned  that  fair  composition. 

No,  if  humour  we  count, 

The  original  fount 
Must  to  Hrco  he  ceded  in  freehold, 

Alio   (»t  equal  supplies 

In  more  subtle  disguise 
Old  GoDFKEV^^  has  far  from  a  wee  hold! 

:Mbs.  Eddy  "  has  come 
__.,  ^nd  we  all  shall  be  dumb 
When  we  hear  what  a  lovely  voice  Emmy's  is; 

Spencer,'*  too,  would  show  what 

He  can  do,  were  it  not 
For  that  cursed  laryngeal  Xemesis. 

At  no  distance  away 

Behold  Alax1=  display 
That  smile  that  is  found  so"upsettinff- 

And  Edgar' «  in  bower. 

In  statecraft,  in  power. 
The  favourite  first  in  the  betting. 

Here  a  trio  we  meet. 
Whom  you  never  will  beat, 
Tho  wide  you  may  wander  and  far  go* 
From  what  w    iderful  art  ' 

"Mr.  Godfrey  Webb, 
"1^^  Hon-  Mrs.  E.  Bourke. 
isiv     ..""•  ^''Ptncer  I.vttelton. 
..Jr."-   '^'""  thurteris. 
hir  E.  Vincent  (now  Lord  D'Abernon). 

[20] 


^flBTfe-^'fT-iJiE.' 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Of  that  Gallant  Old  Bart., 
Sprang  C'iiahty  and  Lucy  and  Margot? 

To  LucY*^  he  gave 

The  wiles  that  enslave, 
Heart  and  tongue  ol"  an  angel  to  Charty"; 

To  jMargot'"  the  wit 

And  the  wielding  of  it, 
That  make  her  the  joy  of  a  party. 

Lopn  Tommy'"'  is  proud 

Th;..  to  CiiARTY  he  vowed 
The  graces  and  gifts  of  a  true  man. 

And  proud  are  the  friends 

Of  Ai,FRKi),-i  who  blends 
The  athlete,  the  hero,  the  woman! 

From  the  Gosford  preserves 

Old  St.  John--  deserves 
Great  praise  for  a  hag  such  as  Hilda"; 

True  worth  she  esteemed. 

Overpowering  he  deemed 
The  subtle  enchantment  that  filled  her. 

Very  dear  are  the  pair, 
He  so  strong,  she  so  fair. 
Renowned  as  the  Taplovite  Winnies; 
Ah!  he  roamed  far  and  wide, 

"Mrs.  Graham  Smith. 

"Lady  Kibldesdale. 

'•Mrs.  Asqiiith. 

"f.ord  Hihblesdale. 

»  ■  .e  Hon.  Alfred   Lvttelton. 

1^?  Br"dric?'  "^"''"  ""'"''■''  <"°^  ^'"■'  °^  Midleton)  and  Lady 


I 

/I 


4] 


■m 


[211 


If 


m. 


|!     ' 


i 
II  I 


II 
III 


1 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

Till  in  Etty="  he  spied 
A  treasure  more  golden  than  guineas. 

Here  is  Doli>'^  who  has  taught 

Us  that  "words  conceal  thought" 
In  his  case  is  a  fallacy  silly 

Hakry  Cust^'  c(Hild  display 

Scalps  as  many,  1  lay, 
t  rom  Paris  as  in  Piccadilly. 

But  some  there  were  too 

iin,  '^^^'^^^  *l^^  ^''^^  *^^y  were  few! 

Who  were  bidden  to  come  and  who  could  not: 

Was  there  one  of  the  lot, 

Ah!  I  hope  there  was  not, 
Looked  askance  at  the  bidding  and  would  not. 

The  brave  Little  Earl=^* 
Is  away,  and  his  pearl- 
Laden  si)ouse,  the  imperial  Gladys^^- 
Ijy  that  odious  gout  ' 

A    .ll^T^^^^'PEE^' knocked  out. 
And  the  wife-  who  his  comfort  and  aid  is. 

Miss  Betty's  engaged. 
And  we  all  are  enraged 
That  the  illness  of  Sihem.'s^^  not  over; 
George  Wyndiiam^"  can't  sit 

-^.  TthS  '^""'^"  ^""^  ^''^  -'^  L-dy  Desborough). 

^".Mr.  Harry  Cust. 

^  Earl  and  Countess  do  Grey 

■^  Karl  and  Oiiintess  Cowix-r.  ' 

Utnntf.ss   Grosvcnnr. 
'•The  late  Right  Hon.  George  Wyndham. 

[22] 


'^imr.^^^!sm 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

At  our  banquet  of  wit, 
Because  he  is  standing  at  Dover. 

But  we  ill  can  afford 

To  dispense  with  the  Lord 
Of  Waddesdox'"  and  ill  Harry  Chaplin"; 

Were  he  here,  we  n»ight  shout 

As  again  he  rushed  out 
From  the  back  of  that  "d— d  big  sapling." 

We  have  lost  I^.U)v  Gay'^ 

'Tis  a  price  hard  to  pay 
For  that  Shah  and  his  appetite  greedy; 

And  alas !  we  have  lost — 

At  what  ruinous  cost! — 
The  charms  of  the  brilliant  Miss  D.D,^^ 

But  we've  got  in  their  place, 

For  a  gift  of  true  grace, 
Virginia's  marvellous  dajjghter.^*^ 

Having  conquered  the  States, 

She's  been  blown  by  the  Fates 
To  conquer  us  over  the  water. 

Now  this  is  the  sum 

Of  all  those  who  nave  come 
Or  ought  to  have  come  to  that  banquet. 

Then  call  for  the  bowl. 

Flow  spirit  and  soul. 
Till  midnight  not  onr  jf  j^ou  can  quit  I 

*  Baron  Ferdinand  dc  Rothschild. 

"  Now  Viscount  Chiiplin. 

"Lady  Windsor  (now  Marchioness  of  Plymouth). 

'Ml^'rV  "/'""'ly  ^,^^'"''"'  "*  ^^^  "°"-  Alfred  Lyttelton). 
iMrs..  Chanler,  the  American  novelist  (now  Princess  Troubetzkov). 

[23] 


f 

\  ■ 


tl  J 


hi/ 


MAUGOT  ASQUITH 

And  blest  by  the  Ganfr 

Be  the  Hhy/ncster  who  sane 
1  heir  praises  in  do^r^rrd  appalling; 

31  ore  now  were  a  sin — 

IFo,  waiters,  be^nn! 
Each  soul  (\)r  consomme  is  calling! 


if 

'  IS 

11 


f ; 

If 


I 


For  my  own  and  the  children's  interest  I  shall 
try.  however  imperfectly,  to  make  a  descriptive 
inventor^'  of  some  of  the  Souls  mentioned  in  this 
poem  and  of  some  of  my  friends  who  were  not. 

Gladstone's  secretary,  Sir  Algernon  West,*  and 
Godfrey  Webb  had  both  loved  Laura  and  corre- 
sponded  with  her  till  she  died  and  they  spent  all 
their  holidays   at   Glen.     I   never  remember  the 
time  when  Al^y  West  was  not  getting  old  and 
did  not  say  he  wanted  to  die;  but,  although  he  is 
ninety,  he  is  still  young,  good-looking  and-what 
IS  even  more  remarkable-a  strong  Liberal     He 
was  never  one  of  the  Souls,  but  he  was  a  faithful 
and  loving  early  friend  of  ours. 

Mr.  Godfrey  Webb  was  the  doyen  of  the  Souls. 
He  was  as  intimate  with  my  brothers  and  parents 
as  he  was  with  my  sisters  and  self.  (Godfrey— 
or  We..ber  as  some  called  him-was  not  only  a  man 

•The  Right  Hon.  Sir  Algernon  West 
[24] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

of  parts,  but  had  a  peculiar  flavour  of  his  own: 
he  had  the  sense  of  humour  and  observation  of  a 
memoirist  and  his  wit  healed  more  than  it  cut.    For 
hours  together  he  would  poke  about  the  country 
with  a  dog,  a  gun  and  a  cigar,  perfectly  indepen- 
dent and  self-sufficing,  whether  engaged  in  sport, 
repartee,  or  literature.     He  wrote  and  publiohed 
for  private  circulation  a  small  book  of  poems  and 
made  the  Souls  famous  by  his  proficiency  at  all  our 
pencil-games.    It  would  be  unwise  to  quote  verses 
or  epigrams  that  depend  so  much  upon  the  occasion 
and  the  environment.     Only  a  George  Meredith 
can  sustain  a  preface  boasting  of  his  heroine's  wit 
throughout  the  book,  but  I  will  risk  one  example 
of  Godfrey  Webb's  quickness.    He  took  up  a  news- 
paper one  morning  in  the  dining-room  at  Glen 
and,  reading  that  a  JMr.  Pickering  Phipps  had 
broken  his  leg  on  rising  from  his  knees  at  prayer, 
he  immediately  wrote  this  couplet: 

On  bended  knees,  w.th  fervent  lips, 
Wrestled  with  Satan  Pickering  Phipps 
But  when  for  aid  he  ceased  to  beg. 
The  v/ily  devil  broke  his  kgl 

He  spent  every  holiday  with  us  and  I  do  not 
think  he  ever  missed  being  with  us  on  the  anniver- 

[25] 


^1 


ti 


.  l{ 


'4 


^A^SwT 


II  f. 


ill; 

I  til 


i 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

sary  of  Laura's  death,  whether  I  was  at  home  or 
abroad.    Ha  was  a  man  in  a  milhon,  the  last  of  the 
wits,  and  I  miss  him  every  day  of  my  life. 
• 
Lord    Midleton* -better    known    as    St.    John 
Brodrick— was  my  first  friend  of  interest;  I  knew 
him  two  years  before  I  met  Arthur  lialfour  or 
any  of  the  Souls.    He  came  over  to  Glen  while  he 
was  staying  with  neighbours  of  ours. 

I  wired  to  him  not  long  ago  to  congratulate  him 
on  being  made  an  Earl  and  asked  him  in  what  year 
it  was  that  he  first  came  to  Glen;  this  is  his  answer: 

T^  „  Jan.  12th,  1920. 

Dearest  Margot, 

I  valued  your  telegram  of  congratulation  the 
more  that  I  know  you  and  Henry  (who  has  given 
so  many  and  refused  all)  attach  little  value  to 
titular  distmctions.  Indeed,  it  is  the  only  truly 
democratic  trait  about  ?/ow,  except  a  general  love 
•A  "' "V^"i*y'  ^^hich  has  always  put  you  on  the 
side  of  the  feeble.  I  am  relieved  to  hear  you  have 
chosen  such  a  reliable  man  -is  Crewe— with  his 
literary  gifts— to  be  the  only  person  to  read  your 
autobiography. 

My  visit   to  Glen  in   R y's  comi)anv   was 

October,  1880,  when  you  were  sixteen.     You  and 
l^aura  flashed  like  meteors  on  to  a  dreary  scene  of 

[26] 


ik\^^iaif7-^.4i?n^^jsE 


AN  AUTOBIOGUAPIIY 

empty  seats  at  the  lutieheon  table  (the  shooting 
V^rtyduYtvmie  in)  a.ul  filled  the  romr  w  th  ?iZ 

talter    ver  his  inarna^re  vcws  within  ten  minntes 

I  rom  then  ..mvar.Js.  y..u  have  aKvavs  heen   he  most 

oyal  and  ,n.h.  Kc;r.t  ,>f  fViends.  for^ettinff  n    one  a 

you  rapi.lly  el.n.hed  to  fame,  and  were  raffled  for 

s4:"jn      ""'"'"  ^-Jringham  to  the  cS,!^^ 

Your  early  years  will  sell  the  book, 
liless  you. 

St.  Johx. 

St.  John  Midleton  was  one  of  the  rare  people 
who  telJ  the  truth.  Some  people  do  not  lie,  but  have 
no  truth  to  tell;  others  are  too  agreeable-<,r  too 
fr.ghtened-and  lie;  but  the  majority  are  indiffer- 
ent:  they  are  the  spectators  of  life  and  feel  no 
responsibility  either  towards  themselves  or  their 
neighbour. 

He  was  fundamentally  himible,  truthful  and  one 
of  the  few  people  I  know  who  are  truly  loyal  and 
who  wouhl  risk  telling  me,  or  any  one  he  loved, 
before  eonfiding  to  an  inner  eirele  faults  .  hieh 
both  he  an.I  1  think  n.ight  be  eorrected.  1  have 
had  a  long  experience  of  inner  circles  and  am 
constantly  reminded  of  the  Spanish  proverb. 
Kemember  your  friend  has  a  friend."    I  think  you 

[27] 


.r 


■■•   .^. 


!l 


MAH(;()T  ASQiriTH 

should  eitlur  kave  the  nnmi  when  those  you  love 
are  nhused  or  he  prepared  to  warn  tlieni  of  what 
people  are  thinkin^r.  This  is.  as  I  know  to  my  cost, 
.Ml  unpopular  view  of  friendship,  hut  neither  St. 
J(»hn  nor  I  woidd  think  it  loyal  to  join  in  the 
lau^ditcr  or  eensure  of  a  friend's  folly. 

Arthur  IJalfour  himself  -the  most  persistent  of 
friends — remarked  lau«(hingly : 

"St.  Jolm  pursues  us  with  his  malignant 
fidelity."  * 

This  was  only  a  coloured  way  of  saying  that 
Midleton  had  none  of  the  detachment  commonly 
found  among  friends;  hut,  as  long  as  we  are  not 
merely  responsihie  for  our  actions  to  the  police,  so 
long  nnist  I  helieve  in  trying  to  help  those  we  love. 

St.  ,»ohn  has  the  same  high  spirits  and  keenness 
now  that  he  ha<l  then  and  the  same  sweetness  and 
simplicity.  There  are  only  a  few  women  whose 
friendships  have  remiiined  as  loving  and  true  to  me 
since  my  girlhood  as  his  -Lady  Horner,  INIiss 
Tomjnsfm.t  Lady  Deshorough.  Mrs.  Montgom- 
ery, Lady  VVemyss  and  Lady  IJridgesf— hut  ever 
since  we  met  in  1880  he  has  taken  an  interest  in 

•  ITie  word  malignity  was  obviously  used  in  tlie  sense  of  the  French 

+  Miss  May  TomJinson,  of  Rye. 

t  Lady  Bridges,  wife  of  General  Sir  Tom  Bridge*. 

[28] 


ci^-r>ft'i75''';-^':^,  w-'-'Xi 


'^■i^w^£!s^jm^^. 


AN  AtiToiiior.nAl'IlY 

"'"""''    ""    """    '^""■'■"'    •"-      "<■    "S    ■„,;  I, 
»";l    ore  „  „i.,„„„  ,,,„„„.  ,„,  ,  ,„^,^_,^,^^     j^;    J 

mH.„r,,,,r„K.Mha„aHl.  fan..  ,,f  ,,,„,,,;*:: 

.n™,..,l,l.  of  „,,,,.,,„„„,  „,p„,..,„„, 

fl"vo„n  c.vc.„  ,,is  ■n„„K.r-i„.,„v.-„  ,,,,„'  f,,,;,,,  j 

,V;  '"'""'""'"»'"■'"•'»•"-»•.„,,,  ,„|.,n,cr 
O"  ,lrc.„  „ul  t.«.,l,er,  l,c«„,e  ho  l„„i  „,„.  „„,„„ 

;"■'  """""  """"■•'-•     I  '-e  t«t.,l  St.  J„l,„  „„„ 
for  many  y^r,  an,I  never  found  him  wanlinff. 

Lord  Pc.„,l,r..ke»  a„,l  Gecrfie  Wyndham  ,vcre 
the  hand.o„,o.t  of  the  Sonis,     Pena.n.ko  was  the 
son  of  s,d„ey  Ilerhert.  f„„,ons  as  Secretary  of 
State  for  War  during  the  Crimea.     I  n.ethin. 
first  the  year  hefore  I  ea.ne  out.    Lor.I  Ki.ehcner-s 
fm.nd,   Lady    Waterford-sister   to   the    present 
l)"kc  of  lleaufort-wrote  to  n,y  mother  asking  if 
Laura  could  dine  with  her,  as  she  had  heen  M,rown 
over   at    the   last   minute   an,l    wanted   a   young 

•Ctorp.,  1311,  p.„|  „,  p,„|,„|,j 

[29] 


-I 


•  .( 


i:f^ 


^ 


r 


MAKGOT  ASQUITH 
woman.     As  my  sister  was  in  the  country,  my 
mother  sent  me.     I  sat  next  to  Arthur  Balfour; 
Lord  Pembrt)ke  was  on  the  other  side,  round  the 
corner  of  the  table;  and  I  remember  being  intoxi- 
cated with  my  own  conversation  and  the  maimer 
iu  which  I  succeeded  in  making  Balfour  and  Pem- 
broke join  in.     I  had  no  idea  who  the  splendid 
stranger  was.    He  told  me  several  years  later  that 
he  had  sent  round  a  note  in  the  middle  of  that  din- 
ner to  Blanchie  Waterford,  asking  her  what  the 
name  of  the  girl  with  the  red  heels  was,  and  that, 
when  he  re/id  her  answer,  "Margot  Tennant."  it 
conveyed  nothing  to  him.    This  occurred  in  1881 
and  was  for  me  an  eventful  evening.    Lord  Pem-. 
broke  was  one  of  the  four  best-looking  men  I  ever 
saw:  the  others,  as  I  have  already  said,  were  the 
late  Earl  of  Wemyss,  Mr.  Wilfrid  Blunt— whose 
memoirs  have  been  recently  published— and  Lord 
D'Abernon.*    He  was  six  foot  four,  but  his  face 
was  even  more  conspicuous  than  his  height.    There 
was  Russian  blood  in  the  Herbert  family  and  he 
was   the   eldest    brother    of   the   beautiful   Lady 
Ripon.  t     He  married  Lady   Gertrude   Talbot. 

•Our  Ambassador  in   Berlin. 

tlTie  late  wife  of  the  present  Marquis  of  Ripon 

[30] 


w^^m 


AN  ATTTOBIOGRAPIIY 

daughter  of  the-  twentieth  Karl  of  Shrewsbury  and 
Talhot.  who  wns  nearly  ns  Hne  to  look  nt  us  he  hitn- 
sflf.    lie  toM  nr  .njon;,r  other  things  at  that  (hnner 
that  he  had  known  Disraeli  and  hml  been  promised 
some  minor  post  in  his  ffovernn.ent.  hut  had  been 
too  ill  at  the  time  to  aeeept  it.     This  developed 
into  a  disei.ssion  on  politics  and  Peeblesshire,  lead- 
inff  up  t<.  our  county  neighbours;  he  asked  me  if  I 
knev   Lord  Klcho,*  „f  whose  beauty  Huskin  had 
written,  and  who  owned  property  in  my  county. 

"Klcho,"  said  he.  "always  expected  to  be  invited 
to  join  the  government,  but  I  said  to  Dizzy.  'Klcho 
is  an  impossible  politician;  he  has  never  understood 
the  meaning  of  party  government  and  l(K)ks  upon 
it  as  dishonest  for  even  three  people  to  attempt  to 
modify  their  opinions  swtKcicntly  to  come  to  an 
agreement.   leave   alone   a   Cabinet!     He    is   an 
egotist!'    To  which  Disraeli  replied,  'Worse  than 
that!    HeisanKlchoist!'" 

Although  Lord  Pembroke's  views  on  all  subjects 
were  remarkably  wide-as  shown  by  the  book  he 
published  called  Root^he  was  a  Conservative. 
We  formed  a  deep  friendship  and  wrote  to  one 

•n.e  father  of  Uie  present  Earl  of  Wemjss  and  March. 

[31] 


4 


Mi 


,1  ilh 


1' 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

another  till  he  dial  a  few  years  after  mv  marriage. 
In  one  of  his  letters  to  me  he  added  this  postscript: 

frank'n^V^'lf /'"*''  ''"^^T  "^  ^'""^  ''^'"^*t's  sweet 
lets  weed     1™,  ^'f^^/  «">vers  and  wild  and  eare- 
less  «teds    so  that  wlien  your  fairy  godmother 
turns  the  Prinee's  footsteps  von r  wav^hfm"    not 
«l.strustmg  your  uature  ir  his  own'  povv^;?  "  fd 

selt  reluctantly  away,  and  pass  sadly  on,  without 
perhaps  your  ever  knowing  that  he  hid  Linear. 

This,  I  imagine,  gave  a  correct  impression  of  m© 
as  I  appeared  to  some  people.  "Garish  flowers" 
and  "Wild  and  careless  weeds"  describe  my  lack  of 
I>runing;  hut  I  am  glad  George  Pembroke  put 
them  on  the  "outer,"  not  the  inner,  borders  of  my 
heart.  "^ 

In  the  tenth  verse  of  Curzon's  poem,  allusion  is 
made  to  Lady  Pembroke's  conversation,  which 
though  not  consciously  pretentious,  provoked  eon- 
sulerable  merriment.  She  "stumbled  upwards  into 
vacuity,"  to  quote  my  dear  friend  Sir  Walter 
Kaleigh. 

There  is  no  one  left  to-day  at  all  hke  George 
1  embroke.     His  combination  of  intellectual  tem- 
perament, gregariousness,  variety  of  tastes-yaeht- 
mg,  art,  sport  and  literature-his  beauty  of  person 
[32] 


IPC 


^Mmtw^^Bmn'^y. 


U; 


AN  ATTTOBTOORAPIIY 

and  hospitality  to  forei^.  .,-.  nvuh  Kmx  the  dis- 
tiMffuished  centre  of  ar ,  rornpany,  His  first 
present  to  me  was  l^.tehe  ..-H  I..,.,^.',  translation 
of  the  Odi/m'/j,  in  whieh  lie  wrote  on  the  fly-leaf, 
"To  JMargot.  who  most  reminds  me  of  Homeric 
days,  1884,''  and  his  last  was  his  wedding  present 
a  diamond  dagger,  which  I  always  wear  close  to 
my  heart. 



Among  the   Sonls.   MiHy   Sutherland/    Lady 
Wmdsor  =  and   Lady  Granby'  were  the  women 
whose  looks  I  admired  most.     Lady  IJrownlow  * 
mentioned  in  verse  eleven,  was  Lady  Pembroke's 
handsome  sister  and  a  famous  Victorian  beauty. 
I.ady  Granby-the  Violet  of  verse  nine,  Gladys 
K.pon^  and  Lady  Windsor  (alluded  to  as  Lady 
Gay  m  verse  twenty-eight),  were  all  women  of 
arrestmg  appearance:  Lady  lirownlow,  a  Roman 
com;   Violet   Rutland,    a   Burne-Jones    Medusa; 
Gladys  Ripon,  a  court  lady;  Gay  Windsor,  an 
Italian  Primitive  and  Milly  Sutherland,  a  Scotch 
ballad.  Betty  Montgomery  was  a  brilliant  girl  and 


The  Dowager  Diichass  of  Sutherland. 
Ihe  present  Countess  of  l'lvn.<.„th. 
Ihc  present  Duchess  of  Hutl.in.l. 


[33] 


/ 


'1 


^i 


p    ' 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

the  only  unmarried  woman,  except  Mrs.  Lyttelton 
among  us.     She  was  the  daughter  of  Sir  Henry 
Ponsonby,  Queen  Victoria's  famous  private  secre- 
tary, and  one  of  the  strongest  Liberals  I  ever  met 
Her  sister  Maggie,  though  socially  uncouth,  bad  a 
touch  of  her  father's  genius;  she  said  of  a  court 
prelate  to  me  one  day  at  Windsor  Castle: 
"There  goes  God's  butler!" 
It  was  through  Betty  and  Maggie  Ponsonby  that 
I  first  met  my  beloved  friend.  Lady  Desborough. 
Though  not  as  good-lot^king  as  the  beauties  I  have 
catalogued,  nor  more  intellectual  than  Lady  Hor- 
ner or  Lady  Wemyss,  Lady  Desborough  was  the 
cleverest  of  us.     Her  flavour  wa ,  more  delicate 
her  social  sensibility  finer;  and  she  added  to  clu-onic 
presence  of  mind  undisguised  effrontery.    I  do  not 
suppose  she  was  ever  unconscious  in  her  life,  l)ut 
she  had  no  self-pity  and  no  egotism.    She  wa.i  not 
an  artist  in  any  way:  music,  singing,  flowers,  paint- 
ing and  colour  left  her  cold.    She  was  not  a  game- 
player  nor  was  she  sporting  and  she  never  invested 
in  parlour  tricks;  yet  she  created  more  fun  for 
other  people  than  anybody.    She  was  a  woman  of 
genius,  who,  if  subtly  and  accurately  described, 
either  m  her  mode  of  life,  her  charm,  wits  or  char- 
[34] 


J 


•T&siaai.'iiv&K;'  'w^^mk'fmmm7^i^m--i£mm:^i;mam 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

acter,  would  have  made  the  fortune  of  any  noveh'st. 
To  an  outsider  she  might-like  all  over-agreeable 
femmes  du   ?nmule~giye  an  impression  of  light 
metal,  but  this  would  be  misleading.     Etty  Des- 
borough  was  fundamentally  sound,  and  the  truest 
friend  that  ever  lived.     Possessed  of  social  and 
moral  sang-froid  of  a  high  order,  she  was  too  ele- 
gant to  faU  into  the  trap  of  the  candid  friend,  but 
nevertheless  she  could,  when  asked,  give  both  coun- 
sel and  judgment  with  the  sympathy  of  a  man  and 
the  wisdom  of  a  god.    She  was  the  first  person  that 
I  sought  and  that  I  would  still  seek  if  I  were  un- 
happy, because  her  ge-  -  .  lay  in  a  penetrating 
understanding  of  the  h:  eart  and  a  detern-.na- 

tion  to  redress  the  balance  of  life's  mihappiness. 
Etty  and  I  attracted  the  same  people.  She  married 
Willy  Grenfell,*  a  man  to  whom  I  was  much 
attached  and  a  British  gladiator  capable  of  chal- 
lenging the  world  in  boating  and  boxing. 

Of  their  soldier  sons,  Julian  and  Billy,  I  cannot 
write.  They  and  their  friends,  Edward  Horner, 
Charles  Lister  and  Raymond  Asquith  all  fell  in 
the  war.    They  haunt  my  heart;  I  can  see  them  in 

•Lord  Desborough  of  Taplow  Court. 

[35] 


/  ,i 


fi'fl 


y 


ii 


i: 


hi 


1 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

front  of  me  now,  eternal  sentinels  of  youth  and 
manliness, 

In  spite  of  a  voracious  appetite  for  enjoyment 
and  ai.  expert  capacity  in  entertaining.  Etty  Des- 
borough  was  perfectly  happy  either  alone  with  her 
family  or  alone  with  her  books  and  could  endure 
with  enviable  patience,  cold  ugly  country-seats  and 
fashionable  people.    I  said  of  her  when  I  first  knew 
her  that  she  ought  to  have  lived  in  the  days  of  the 
great  King's  mistresses.    I  would  have  gone  to  her 
If  I  were  sad,  but  never  if  I  were  guilty.    Most  of 
us  have  asked  ourselves   ^t  one  time  or  another 
whom  we  would  go  to  if  we  had  done  a  wicked 
thing;  and  the  interesting  part  of  this  question  is 
that  in  the  answer  you  will  get  the  best  possible  in- 
dication  of  human  nature.    Many  have  said  to  me. 
1  would  go  to  So-and-so.  because  they  would  un- 
derstand my  temptation  and  make  allowances  for 
me  ';  but  the  majority  would  choose  the  confidante 
most  competent  to  point  to  the  way  of  escape, 
il^tty  Desborough  would  be  that  confidante 

She  had  neither  father  nor  mother,   but  was 

brought  up  by  two  prominent  and  distinguished 

members  of  the  Souls,  my  hfe-long  and  beloved 

friends.  Lord  and  Lady  Cowper  of  Panshanger 

[36]  ^    ' 


iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii|iiii   I  I  iiiiiwi  iiiiimiiiiiiiiii  III  II    III! 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

now,  alas,  both  dead.    Etty  had  eternal  youth  and 
was  alive  to  everything  in  life  except  its  irony. 

If  for  health  or  for  any  other  reason  I  hacl  I)een 
separated  from  my  children  when  they  were  young, 
I  would  as  soon  have  confided  them  to  the  love 
of  Etty  and  WiUy  Desborough  as  to  any  of  my 
friends. 

To  illustrate  the  jealousy  and  friction  which  the 
Souls  caused,  I  nmst  relate  a  conversational  scrap 
I  had  at  this  time  with  Lady  Londonderry,*  which 
caused  some  talk  among  our  critics. 

She  was  a  beautiful  woman,  a  little  before  my 
day,  happy,  courageous  and  violent,  with  a  mind 
which  clung  firmly  to  the  obvious.  Though  her 
nature  was  impulsive  and  kind,  she  was  not  for- 
giving.   One  day  she  said  to  me  with  pride: 

"I  am  a  good  friend  and  a  bad  enemy.    No  kiss- 
and-make-friends  about  me,  my  dear!" 

I  have  often  wondered  since,  as  I  did  then,  what 

the  difference  bet^veen  a  good  and  a  bad  enemy  is. 

She  was  not  so  well  endowed  intellectually  as  her 

rival  Lady  de  Grey,  but  she  had  a  stronger  will 

and  was  of  sounder  temperament. 

^There  was  nothing  wistful,  reflective  or  retiring 

•The  late  Marchioness  of  Londonderry. 

[37] 


m 


J,i 


M  Mi 


f 


N  h 


ii 


MARGOT  ASQUITII 

about  Lady  Londonderry.     She   was   keen  and 
vivid,  hut  crude  an({  impenitent. 

We  were  accused  cntrc  autrcs  of  hein^r  conceited 
and  of  talkin^r  ahout  books  which  we  had  not  read, 
a  habit  which  I  have  never  had  the  temerity  to  ac- 
quire.    John   Addin^on    Sym(,nds-an   intimate 
friend  of  mine-had  brought  out  a  l,ook  of  essavs, 
which  were  not  very  good  and  caused  no  sensation. 
One  night,  after  dinner,  I  was  sitting  in  a  circle 
of  fashionable  men  and  women— none  of  them  par- 
ticularly intimate  with  mt^when  Lady  London- 
derry opened  the  talk  about  books.    Hardly  know- 
ing her,  I  entered  with  an  innocent  zest  into  the 
conversation.     I  was  taken  in  by  her  mention  of 
Symonds'  Studies  in  Itahj,  an.l  thought  she  must 
be  literary.    Launching  out  upon  style,  I  said  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  rul)bish  written  about  it,  but  it 
was  essential  that  people  should  write  simply.    At 
this  some  one  twitted  me  with  our  pencil-game  of 
"Styles"  and  asked  me  if  I  thought  I  shoulil  know 
the  author  from  hearing  a  casual  passage  read  out 
aloud  from  one  of  their  books.    I  said  that  some 
writers  would  be  easy  to  recognise—such  as  Mere- 
dith, Carlyle,  De  Quincey  or  Browning— but  that 
when  it  came  to  others— men  like  Scott  or  Froude 
[38] 


AN  AUTOBIOGKAPHY 

fo"  instance— T  should  not  he  so  sure  of  myself.   At 
this  there  was  an  outc-y:  Fn^ude,  havin^r  the  finest 
style  in  the  world,  ought  surely  t(>  he  easily  reeog- 
nised!    I  was  quite  ready  to  helieve  that  some  of 
the    company    had   made    a    complete    study   of 
Froude's  style,  hut  I  had  not.    I  said  that  I  could 
not  he  sure,  because  his  writing  was  too  smooth 
and  perfect,  and  that,  when  1  read  him,  I  felt 
as  if  I  was  swallowing  arrow-root.     This  shocked 
them  profoundly  and  I  added  that,  unless  I  were 
to  stumble  across  a  horseman  coming  over  a  hill, 
or  something  equally   fascinating,    I    should   not 
even  be  sure  of  recogm'sing  Scott's  style.  This  scan- 
dalised the  company.     I.ady   Londonderry  then 
asked  me  if  I  admired  Symonds'  writing.     I  told 
her  I  did  not,  although  I  liked  some  of  his  books. 
She  seemed  to  think  that  this  was  a  piece  of  swagger 
on  my  part  and,  after  disagreeing  with  a  lofty 
shake  of  her  head,  said  in  a  challenging  manner: 

"I  should  be  curious  to  know,  Miss  Tennant, 
what  you  have  read  by  Symonds!" 

Feeling  I  was  being  taken  on,  I  replied  rather 
chillily  : 

"Oh,  the  usual  sort  of  thing!" 

Lady  Londonderry,  visibly  irritated  anJ  with 

[39] 


tii 


IV 


MARGOT  ASQUITII 

the  confident  air  of  (,ne  who  has  a  little  surprise  in 
store  for  the  conipanj-,  said: 

"Have  you  by  any  chance  looked  at  Essays,  Sug- 
gestive and  Speculative?" 
Mahgot:  "Yes,  I've  read  them  all." 
Ladv  Loni.ox„ehky:  "Really!    Do  you  not  ap- 
prove of  them?" 

Mahgot:  "Approve?  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean." 

L.y)Y  Lox  noNDERRY :  "Do  you  not  think  the  writ- 
mg  beautiful  .    .    .  the  style,  I  mean?" 

Mahgot:  "I  think  they  are  all  very  bad,  but  then 
I  don't  admire  SjTiionds'  style." 

Lady  Loxdondekhy:  "1  am  afraid  you  have  not 
read  the  book." 

This  annoyed  me;  I  saw  the  company  were  en- 
chanted with  their  spokeswoman,  but  1  thought  it 
unt  ^cessarily  rude  and  more  than  foolish. 

I  looked  at  her  calmly  and  said: 

"I  am  afraid,  Lady  Londonderry,  you  have  not 
read  the  preface.  The  book  is  dedicated  to  me. 
Symonds  was  a  friend  of  mine  and  I  was  staying  at 
Davos  at  the  time  he  was  writing  those  essays. 
He  was  rash  enough  to  ask  me  to  read  one  of  them 
m  manuscript  and  write  whatever  I  thought  upon 


AN  AUTOIJIOGKAPIIY 

the  margin.  This  I  did.  hut  he  was  offended  hy 
something  I  scrihhkd.  I  was  so  surprised  at  his 
minding  that  I  told  him  he  was  never  to  show  me 
any  of  his  unpublished '  work  again,  at  whieh  he 
forgave  me  and  dedieated  the  l)(H)k  to  me." 

After  this  flutter  I  was  not  taken  on  by  fashicn- 
able  ladies  about  books. 


Lady  Londonderry  never  belonged  to  the  Souls, 
but  her  antagonist,  Lady  de  (Jrey,  was  one  of  its 
chief  ornaments  and  my  friend.    She  was  a  luxu- 
rious woman  of  great  beauty,  with  perfect  manners 
and  a  moderate  sense  of  duty.  She  was  the  last  word 
in  refinement,  perception  and  charm.     There  was 
something  septic  in  her  nature  and  I  heard  her  say 
one  day  that  the  sound  of  the  cuckoo  made  her  feel 
ill;  but,  although  she  was  n<it  lazy  and  seldom  idle, 
she  never  developed  her  intellectual  powers  or  sus- 
tained herself  by  reading  or  study  of  any  kind.  She 
had  not  the  smallest  sense  of  proportion  and,  if  any- 
thing went   wrong   in   her   entertainments— cold 
plates,  a  flat  souffle,  or  some  one  throwing  her  over 
for  dinner — she  became  almost  impotent  from  agi- 
tation, only  excusable  if  it  had  been  some  great 
public  disaster.  She  and  JNIr.  Harry  Higgins— an 

[41] 


m 


ii 


mim----^^i!'  *in.t<a>^»a»<>'%.>iiBwwiHMa>HLMi'ii^wit 


MARGOT  ASQTTITII 

exceptionally  clevtr  aii<]  <Uv(»lf(l  friend  of  mine— 
havin^r  revived  the  opini.  Holainiaii  society  heeanie 
her  hohhy;  hut  a  tenor  in  the  eountry  ..r  a  dancer 
on  the  lawn  are  not  really  wanted;  and.  althcugh 
she   .sjRut   cdless   time     at   C'ovent  (Jarden   and 
achieved  considerable  success,  restlessness  devoured 
her.    ^^'hile  receivin^r  the  adoration  of  a  small  hut 
mfliiential  circle,  she  appeared  to  me  to  have  tried 
everythin^r  to  no  j)urposc  and,  in  spite  of  an  exper- 
ience which  queens  and  actresses,  professionals  and 
amateurs  mi^rht  well  have  envied,  she  remained 
embarrassed  by  herself,  fluid,  brilli,".,t  and  uneasy. 
The  personal  no    i>y  with  which  she  worked  her 
hospital  in  the  Great  ^Var  years  brought  her  peace. 
• 
Frances  Horner*  was  more  like  a  sister  to  me 
than  any  one  outside  my  own  family.     I  met  her 
when  she  was  Miss  Graham  and  I  was  fourteen. 
She  was  a  leader  in  what  was  called  the  high  art 
William  JMorris  School  and  one  of  the  few  girls 
who  ever  had  a  salon  in  London. 

I  was  deeply  impressed  by  her  appearance,  it 
was  the  fashion  of  the  day  to  wear  the  autumn 
desert  in  your  hair  and  "soft  shades"  of  Liberty 
velveteen;  but  it  was  neither  the  unusualness  of  her 

•Lady  Horner,  of  Mells,  Frome. 

[42] 


i«' 


AN  Al^romOGRAPIIY 

clothes  nor  the  si^lit  of  Hnrnt-.Tr.ncs  at  her  feet 
and  Uuskiii  at  her  elhow  that  .slniek  me  most,  hut 
what  C'harty's  little  hoy,  Tointny  Lister,  ealled  her 
"ghost  eyes"  and  the  nohility  of  her  eoiintenanee. 

There  may  he  women  as  will  endowed  with  heart, 
head,  temjjer  and  temperament  as  Frances  Homer, 
hut  I  have  only  met  a  f.;w:  Lady  de  Vesei  (whose 
niece,  Cynthia,  married  our  poet-son,  Ilerhert), 
Lady  Betty  Jialfour*  and  my  daughter  Elizaheth. 
With  most  women  the  inipulse  to  erah  is  greater 
than  to  i^raise  and  grandeur  of  character  is  sur- 
prisingfy  lacking  in  them;  hut  Lady  Horner  com- 
prises all  that  is  hest  in  my  sex. 

Mary  Wemyss  was  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
of  the  Souls  and  was  as  wise  as  she  was  just,  truth- 
ful, taetful,  and  generous.  She  might  have  heen  a 
grea.  .  duence,  as  indeed  she  was  always  a  great 
pleasure,  hut  she  was  hoth  physically  and  mentally 
hadly  equij)pe(l  for  coping  with  life  and  spent  and 
wasted  more  time  than  was  justifiahle  on  plans 
which  could  have  been  done  by  any  good  servant. 
It  would  not  have  mattered  the  endless  discussion 
whether  the  brougham  fetching  one  part  of  the  fam- 
ily from  one  station  and  a  bus  fetching  another  part 

•Sister  of  the  Earl  of  Lytton  and  wife  of  Mr.  Gerald  Balfour. 

[43] 


hi 


MAIUiOT  ASgniTH 

of  it  fnmi  ttnothtr  interfered  witli  a  ^iicst  catching 
a  five  or  a  five-to-five  trr=n— whieh  could  or  could 
not  he  stopped—if  one  could  have  been  (luitc  sure 
that   Mary   VV^nijs.s  needed  her  friend  so  niiicli 
that  another  opportunity  would  he  given  for  an 
intimate    interchange    of  confidences;   but    plan- 
weaving  blinds  i)eople  to  a  true  sense  of  proportion 
and  my  beloved  Mary  never  had  enough  time  for 
any  of  ns.    She  is  the  only  woman  I  know  or  have 
ever  known  without  smallness  or  touchiness  of  any 
kind.      Ilcr   jantc    milieu,    if   a    trific    becalmed, 
amounts  to  genius;  and  I  was—and  still  am— more 
interested  in  her  moral,  social  and  intellectual  opin- 
ions than  in  most  of  my  friends'.    Some  year.-,  ago 
1  wrote  this  in  my  diary  alioiit  her: 

"Mary  is  generally  a  day  behind  tht  lair  and  will 
only  hear  of  my  death  from  the  man  behind  the 
counter  who  is  struggling  to  clinch  her  over  a 
collar  for  her  chow." 


One  of  the  less  prominent  of  the  Souls  was  my 
friend,  Lionel  Tennyson.*  He  was  the  second  son 
of  the  poet  and  was  an  icial  in  the  India  Office, 
lie  had  an  untidy  appearance,  a  black  beard  and 

"Brother  of  the  present  Lord  Tennyson. 
[44] 


»•'■     '^ 


A\  aut()hi(k;haphv 

no  manners.     He  san^  fitminn  hccr-songs  in  a 
lusty  voice  and  wroto  ^ockI  verses. 

He  sent  me  many  {.(hims,  hiit  I  think  these  tvv<i 
are  the  best.  The  first  was  written  to  me  on  my 
twenty-first  birthday,  before  the  Souls  came  into 
existence: 

What  is  a  single  flower  when  the  world  is  white 
with  may? 

What  is  a  gift  to  one  so  rich,  a  siniK^  to  one  so  gav' 
What  IS  a  thought  to  ..tie  so  rich  in  the  lovinif 
thoughts  ol  men  i 

How  should  I  hope  because  I  sigh  that  yoa  will 
sigh  again  * 

Yet  when  you  see  my  gift,  you  may 
(Ma  bayadere  aux  yeux  de  jais) 
Think  of  me  once  to-day. 

Think  of  me  as  you  will,  dear  girl,  if  you  will  let 
me  be 

Somewhere  enshrined  within  the  fane  of  your  pure 
memory; 

Think  of  your  poet  as  of  one  who  only  thinks  of 
you, 

That  you  are  all  his  thought,  that  he  were  happy 
if  he  knew — 

You  did  receive  his  gift,  and  say 
(Ma  })ayadere  aux  yeux  de  jais) 
"He  thinks  of  me  to-day." 

[45] 


l!i;! 


MARGOT  ASQUITII 

And  this  is  the  second : 

She  drew  me  from  my  cosy  seat. 
She  drew  me  to  her  cruel  feet, 
She  whisjitrcd,  "Call  me  Snily!" 
I  lived  upon  her  smile,  her  sigh, 
Alas,  you  f(M)l,  I  knew  not  1 
Was  only  her  im-aUcr. 

The  jade!  she  knew  her  business  well, 
She  made  each  hour  a  heaven  or  hell. 
For  she  could  coax  and  rally; 
She  was  .vo  lo\  int?,  frank  and  kind. 
That  no  suspicion  crost  my  mind 
That  I  was  her  jns-aller. 

My  brother  says  "I  told  yon  so! 
Her  conduct  was  not  commc  il  faut. 
But  strictly  com  me  il  fallait; 
She  swore  that  she  was  fond  and  true; 
No  doubt  she  was,  poor  girl,  but  you 
Were  ordy  her  pis-aller." 

He  asked  me  what  I  would  like  him  to  give  me 
for  a  birthday  present,  and  I  said: 

"If  j'ou  want  to  give  me  pleasure,  take  me  down 
to  your  father's  country  house  for  a  Saturday  to 
Monday." 

This  Lionel  arranged;  and  he  and  I  went  down 
to  Aldworth,  Ilaslemere,  together  from  London. 
[46] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

While  we  were  talking  in  the  train,  a  distin- 
guished old  lady  got  in.  She  wore  an  ample  black 
satin  skirt,  small  black  satin  slippers  in  goloshes, 
a  sable  tippet  and  a  large,  picturesque  lace  bonnet. 
Slie  did  not  appear  to  be  listening  to  our  conver- 
sation, because  she  was  reading  with  an  air  of  con- 
centration; but,  on  looking  at  her,  I  observed  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  me.  I  wore  a  scarlet  cloak 
trimmed  with  cock's  feathers  and  a  black,  three- 
cornered  hat.  When  we  arrived  at  our  station, 
the  old  lady  tipped  a  porter  to  find  out  from  my 
luggage  who  I  was;  and  when  she  died — several 
years  later — she  left  me  in  her  will  one  of  my  most 
valuable  jewels.  This  was  Lady  Margaret  Beau- 
mont; and  I  made  both  her  acquaintance  and 
friendship  before  her  death. 

Lady  Tennyson  was  an  invalid;  and  we  were 
received  on  our  arrival  by  the  poet.  Tennyson 
was  a  magnificent  creature  to  look  at.  He  had 
everything:  height,  figure,  carriage,  features  and 
expression.  Added  to  this  he  had  what  George 
Meredith  said  of  him  to  me,  "the  feminine  hint  to 
perfection."     He  greeted  me  by  saying: 

"Well,  are  you  as  clever  and  spurty  as  your 
sister  Laura?" 

[47] 


;i?'l 


I'' 


■^' 


lii 


:!;r 


ji 


i 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  had  never  heard  the  word  "spurty"  before,  nor 
indeed  have  I  since.  To  answer  this  kind  of  frontal 
attack  one  has  to  be  either  saucy  or  servile;  so  I 
said  nothing  memorable.  We  sat  down  to  tea  and 
he  asked  me  if  I  wanted  him  to  dress  for  dinner, 
adding: 

"Your  sister  said  of  me,  you  know,  that  I  was 
both  untidy  and  dirty." 
To  which  I  replied: 
"Did  you  mind  this?" 

Tennyson  :  "I  wondered  if  it  was  true.    Do  you 
think  I'm  dirty?" 

Mahgot:  "You  are  very  handsome." 
Tennyson:  "I  can  see  by  that  remark  that  you 
think  I  am.    Very  well  then,  I  will  dress  for  dinner. 
Have  you  read  Jane  Welsh  Carlyle's  letters?" 

Mahgot:  "Yes,  I  have,  and  I  think  them  excel- 
lent. It  seems  a  pity,"  I  added,  with  the  common- 
place that  is  apt  to  overcome  one  in  a  first  conver- 
sation with  a  man  of  eminence,  "that  they  were  ever 
married;  with  any  one  but  each  other,  they  might 
have  been  perfectly  happy." 

Tennyson:  "I  totally  disagree  with  you.     By 
any  other  arrangement  four  people  would  have 
been  unhappy  instead  of  two." 
[48] 


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AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
After  this  I  went  up  to  my  room.  The  hours  kept 
at  Aldworth  were  peculiar;  we  dined  early  and 
after  dinner  the  poet  went  to  bed.  At  ten  o'elock 
he  came  downstairs  and,  if  asked,  W(,uld  read  his 
poetry  to  the  company  till  past  midnight. 

I  dressed  for  diimer  with  great  care  that  first 
night  and,  placing  myself  next  to  him  when  he  came 
down,  I  asked  him  to  read  out  loud  to  me. 
Tennysoi,  :  "What  do  you  want  me  to  read?" 
Margot:  "Maud." 

Tennyson:  "That  was  the  poem  T  was  cursed 
for  writing!  When  it  came  out  no  word  was  bad 
enough  for  me!  I  was  a  blackguard,  a  ruffian  and 
an  atheist!  You  will  live  to  have  as  great  a  con- 
tempt  for  literary  critics  and  the  public  as  I  have, 
my  child!" 

WhUe  he  was  speaking,  I  found  on  the  floor, 
among  piles  of  books,  a  small  copy  of  3Iaud,  a 
shilling  volume,  bound  in  blue  paper.  I  put  it  into 
his  hands  and,  pulling  the  lamp  nearer  him,  he 
began  to  read. 

There  is  only  one  man— a  poet  also-who  reads 
as  my  host  did;  and  that  is  my  beloved  friend, 
Professor  Gilbert  Murray.    When  I  first  heard 

[49] 


fj^f 


f 


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■!., 


i; 


i' 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

him  at  Oxford,  I  closed  my  eyes  and  felt  as  if  the 
old  poet  were  with  me  again. 

Tennyson's  reading  had  the  lilt,  the  tenderness 
and  the  rhythm  that  makes  music  in  the  soul.  It 
was  neither  singing,  nor  chanting,  nor  speaking, 
but  a  subtle  mixture  of  the  three;  and  the  effect 
upon  me  was  one  of  haunting  harmonies  that  left 
me  profoundly  moved. 

He  began,  "Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden," 
and,  skipping  the  next  four  sections,  went  on  to, 
"  I  have  led  her  home,  my  love,  my  only  friend," 
and  ended  with: 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  commg,  my  dove,  my  dear, 

She  is  coming  my  life,  my  fate; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "She  is  near,  she  is  near-" 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "She  is  late;"  ' 
The  larkspur  listens,  "I  hear,  I  hear;" 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "I  wait." 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread. 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthly  bed; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  bef^t. 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet. 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 
[50J 


I     .  I 


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^^i^nfttTt 


i/ihj  TffeiuiSM  Aiutifc;  hx  h^'Mhf^  /5SK 


LORD   TENNYSON'S   TRIBtTTE    TO   SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  HITHERTO 

UNPUBLISHED. 


[51] 


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AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

When  he  had  finished,  he  pulled  me  on  to  his 
knee  and  said: 

"Many  nmy  have  written  as  well  as  that,  but 
nothing  that  ever  sounded  so  well!" 

I  could  not  speak. 

He  then  told  us  that  he  had  had  an  unfortunate 
experience  with  a  young  lady  to  whom  he  was 
reading  Maud. 

"She  was  sitting  on  my  knee."  he  said,  "as  you 
are  doing  now,  and  after  reading, 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
When  twilight  was  falling, 
Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 
They  were  crying  and  calling, 

I  asked  her  what  bird  she  thought  I  meant.    She 
said,  'A  nightingale.'    This  made  me  so  angry  that 
I  nearly  flung  her  to  the  ground:    'No.  fool! 
Rook!' said  I." 

I  got  up,  feeling  rather  sorry  for  the  voung 
lady,  but  was  so  afraid  he  was  going  to  stop 
reading  that  I  quickly  opened  The  Princess  ^.nd 
put  It  into  his  hands,  and  he  went  on. 

I  still  possess  the  little  Maud,  bound  in  its  blue 
paper  cover,  out  of  which  he  read  to  us,  with  my 
name  written  in  it  by  Tennyson. 

[53] 


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II 


MARGOT  ASQl^ITII 

The  morning  after  my  arrival  I  was  invitcl  by 
our  host  to  go  for  a  walk  with  him.  which  flattered 
me  very  much;  hut  after  walking  at  a  great  pace 
over  rough  gn.u.id  for  two  hours  I  regretted  my 
vanity.  Kxeept  n.y  Ijrother  CJIerK-onner  I  never 
met  sueh  an  easy  mover.  The  most  characteristic 
feature  left  on  my  mind  of  that  walk  vas  Tenny- 
son's  appreciation  of  other  poets. 

Writing  of  poets,  I  come  to  George  Wyndham.* 
It  would  be  superfluous  to  add  anjihing  to  what 
has  already  been  published  of  him,  but  he  was 
among  the  best-looking  and  most  lovable  of  my 
circle. 

He  was  a  young  man  of  nature  endowed  with 
even  greater  beauty  than  his  sister,  Lady  Gien- 
conner,  but  with  less  of  her  lite.,  ary  talent.  Al- 
though his  name  will  always  be  associated  with  the 
Irish  Land  Act,  he  was  more  interested  in  literature 
than  politics,  and,  with  a  little  self-discipline,  might 
have  been  eminent  in  both. 

Mr.  Harry  Cust  is  the  last  of  the  Souls  that  I 
mtend  writing  about  and  w  .s  in  some  ways  the 
rarest  and  the  mosf  brilliant  of  them  all.    Some  one 

•The  late  Uight  Hon.  .     ,rge  Wyndham. 
[54] 


AN  AUTOHIOGUAPIIY 

who  knew  him  well  wrote  truly  of  him  after  he  died: 
"He  tossed  off  the  cup  of  life  without  ftar  of  it 
containing  any  poison,  hut  like  marjy  wilful  men  he 
was  deficient  in  will-power." 

The  first  time  I  ever  saw  Harry  Cust  was  in 
Grosvenor  S<|uare.  where  he  had  come  t<.  see  my 
sister  Laura.  A  fe-  eeks  later  I  found  her 
making  u  saehet,  which  wj.  an  ut.usiial  occupation 
for  her,  and  she  told  me  it  -as  for  "Mr.  Cuit," 
who  was  going  to  Australia  fo*  his  health. 

He  remained  abroad  for  over  a  year  and,  on  the 
night  of  the  Jubilee,  1887,  he  walked  into  our  house 
where  we  were  having  sui)per.  He  had  just  re- 
turned from  Australia,  and  was  terribly  upset  to 
hear  that  I^aura  was  dead. 

Harry  Cust  had  an  untiring  enthusiasm  for  life. 
At  Eton  he  had  been  captain  of  the  school  and  he 
was  a  scholar  of  Trinity.  He  had  as  fine  a  memory 
as  Professor  Churton  Collins  or  my  husband  and 
an  unplumbed  sea  of  knowledge,  quoting  m  ith  equal 
ease  both  poetry  and  prose.  He  edited  the  Pall 
Mall  Gazette  brilliantly  for  several  years.  With 
his  youth,  brains  and  looks,  he  might  have  done 
anj-thing  in  life;  but  he  was  fatally  self-indulgent 
and  success  with  my  sex  damaged  his  public  career. 

[55] 


..J 


I  \ 


is 


MAIU.OT  ASQUITH 

He  was  a  fastidi.  .s  critic  and  a  faithful  friend, 
fearless,  reckless  an.J  .m  forgettable. 
He  wrc.te  one   r.  ^,3,.^,,  ^p  ^^^^^  ^^ 

m^Hislymthe  Ox.,  u'.  ok  of  English  Verse: 
Not  unto  us.  0    ,,,•,!. 
Xotuntousther.(,t,  .    .f  the  day. 

uZiT":'[-t'  -  -'    s  divf  J 'surprise 
H,ghto.h.gh.p..h/,..^,..    uSh^iouring 

For  at  Thy  word 

All  these  are  taken  riway 

Not  unto  us,  O  L  ,rd: 

Thou  piercest  very  far. 

Not  unto  us.  O  Lord: 

M7uh7^'  mV'"**'  ^''  ^'  «»  things  given- 
Bu"^^  H  noTal  '[h  T^  "lll'^  ^.^^  sky^tCd- 
Let  nlrafford*'"*  "''^*'  "'  ^"^^  ^^  ^-^^^^ 
The  pavement  of  her  Heaven! 

.^utn,  1887: 

IW  r*;  *''"';'^^*'  "^^^^  «^  ^^'«^"J  «s  worry  can 
Heart  Lke  a  tunup  arul  head  like  a  hurricane"' 


■a; 


"iim 


AN  ATTTORIOGRAPTIY 

When  lo!  on  my  <InII  t-yes  there  suddenly  leaped  a 
Briffht  Hash  of  your  writing,  dn  Herzens^eliebte; 
And  I  found  that  the  Hft-  I  was  thinking  so  kavuhle 
Had  still  something'  in  it  made  living  ntnceivahle; 
And  that,  spiti-  of  tlie  sores  and  lh«-  I)or('s  and  the 

flaws  in  it. 
My  own  life's  the  oetter  f«)r  small  hits  of  yours  in  it; 
And  it's  only  to  tell  you  just  that  that  I  write  to 

you. 

And  just  for  the  pleasure  of  saying  ^K>d  ni»?ht  to 
you : 

For  I've  nothing  to  toll  you  and  nothing  to  talk 

about. 
Save  that  I  eat  and  I  sleep  and  I  walk  about. 
Since  three  days  past  docs  the  indolent  I  bury 
Myself  in  the  IJritish  Museum  Mb'ary. 
Trying  in  writinjr  to  ^ec  in  my  hand  a  bit, 
And  re    Jinp  Dutch  hooks  that  I  don't  understand 

a  bit: 
But  to-day  I.ady  Charty  and  swe«t  Mrs.  Lucy  em- 
Broidered  the  dusk  of  the  Hritisli  Museum. 
And  made  me  so  hap|)y  l)y  talkin^r  and  lau>;hiti^r  on 
That  I  loved  thenj  more  tlian  the  Trieze  of  the 

Parthenon. 
But  I'm  sleepy  I  know  and  don't  know  if  I  silly 

ain't; 
Dined  to-night  with  your  sisters,  where  Tommy 

Was  brilliant; 
And,  while  I  the  rest  of  J.c  company  deafened,  I 
Dallied  awhile  with  your  auntlet  of  seventy. 
While  one,  Mr.  ^Vinsloe.  a  volmne  before  him, 
Regarded  us  all  with  a  miody  decorum. 

r.57] 


A,  ■■ 


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MAKGOT  ASQUITII 

No.  I  can't  keep  awake,  anrl  so,  bowing  and  blessing 
And^sjeing  and  loving  (while  slowly  undressing) 

'^'^l^'v  ^'•'''^".j'''^"''  «"'J  kiss,  with  a  drowsed 
ocnediction,  -t 

Knowing,  as  you,  I'm  your  ever  affectionate 

IIabry  C.  C. 



I  had  another  friend,  James  Kenneth  Stephen, 
too  pagan,  waj-Avard  and  lonely  to  be  available  for 
the  Souls,  but  a  man  of  genius.  One  after- 
noon  he  came  to  see  me  in  Grosvenor  Square  and, 
bemg  told  by  the  footman  that  I  was  riding  in  the 
Row,  he  asked  for  t6a  and,  while  waiting  for  me 
wrote  the  following  parody  of  Kipling  and  left  it 
on  my  writing-table  with  his  card: 

P.S.    The  JMan  who  Wrote  It. 

We  all  called  him  The  Man  who  Wrote  It.    And 

n  of    1/*.^'^'"*  '^''  "•''^"  "--"t^'  "'•  ft  for  short- 
all  of  us  that  IS,  except  The  Girl  who  Head  It.    She 

oTZr^f  r^'*'">;  "^*-"  ^'^^  ^^«-^"'t  that  sort 
of  girl,  but  she  read  It,  vhich  was  a  pity  from  the 
pou.t  of  v.ew  of  The  Man  who  AVrote  It. 

1  he  man  is  dead  now. 

Dropped  down  a  cud  out  bcvond  Karachi  and 
was  brought  home  more  like  broken  meat  in  * 
basket.    But  that's  another  story  * 

[58] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  girl  read  It,  and  told  It,  and  forgot  all  about 
It,  and  in  a  week  It  was  all  over  the  station.  I 
heard  it  from  Ohl  Hill  IJiiffles  at  the  club  while  we 
were  smoking  between  a  peg  and  a  hot  weather 
dawn. 

J.  K.  S. 

I  was  delighted  with  this.  Another  time  he 
wrote  a  parody  of  Myers'  f;f.  Paul  for  me.  I  will 
only  quote  one  verse  out  of  the  eight: 

Lo?  yhat  the  deuce  I'm  always  saying  "Lo!"  for 
God  is  aware  and  leaves  me  iminformed. 
Lo!  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  to  go  for, 
Lo!  there  is  naught  inadequately  formed. 

He  ended  by  signing  his  name  and  ^\Titing: 

Souvenez-vous  si  les  vers  <jue  je  trace 
Fussent  parfois  (je  ravouc!)  I'argot, 
Si  vous  trouvez  un  pen  trop  jl'audace 
On  ose  tout  quand  on  se  dit 

"Margot." 

My  dear  friend  J.K.S.  was  responsible  for  the 
aspiration  frequently  (juoted: 

When  the  Rudyards  cease  from  Kipling 
And  the  Haggards  ride  no  more. 
• 
Although  I  can  hardly  claim  Symonds  as  a  Soul, 
he  was  so  much  interested  in  me  and  my  friends 
that  I  must  write  a  short  account  of  him. 

[59] 


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I.; 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  was  nursing  my  sfster,  Pauline  Gord.;n  Duff 
when  I  first  met  John  Addington  Symonds.  in 
1005,  at  JJavos. 

I  climbed  up  to  Am  Hof*  one  afternoon  with  a 
letter  of  introduction,  which  was  taken  to  the  family 
while  I  was  shown  into  a  wooden  room  full  of 
charming  things.     As  no  one  came  near  mp    I 
presumed  every  one  was  out.  so  I  settled  down 
peacefully  among  the  books,  prepared  to  wait.    In 
a  little  time  I  heard  a  shuffle  of  slippered  feet  and 
some  one  pausing  at  the  open  door. 

"Hass  he  gone?"  was  the  querulous  question  that 
came  from  behind  the  screen. 

And  in  a  moment  the  thin,  curious  face  of  John 
Addington  Symonds  was  peering  at  me  round  the 
corner. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  answer: 

"No  I  am  afraid  she  is  still  here!" 

Being  ine  most  courteous  of  men,  he  smiled  and 
took  my  hand;  and  we  went  up  to  his  library 
together. 

Symonds  and  I  became  very  great  friends. 
After  putting  my  sister  to  bed  at  9.30. 1  climbed 
every  night  by  starlight  up  to  Am  Hof.  where  we 

V.  A.  S\Tnonds'»  country  haoM. 

[60] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

talked  and  read  out  lo.ul  till  one  and  often  two  in 
the  morning.    I  learnt  more  in  those  winter  nights 
at  Da-.-s  than  I  had  eve-  learnt  in  my  life     We 
read  The  Republic  and  all  the  Plato  dialogues 
together;  Swift,  Voltaire,  Browning,  Walt  Whit- 
man, Edgar  Poe  and  Symonds'  own  Remissance 
besides   passages    from   every   author   and    poet, 
which  he  would  turn  up  feverishly  to  illustrate  what 
he  wanted  me  to  understand. 

I  shall  always  think  Lord  .Aforley*  the  best  talker 
I  ever  heard  and  after  him  I  would  say  Symonds 
Birrell  and  Bergson.     George  Meredith  was  too 
much  of  a  prima  donna  and  was  very  deaf  and 
uninterruptable  when   I  knew  him,  but  he  was 
amazingly  good  even  then.    Alfred  Austin  was  a 
friend  of  his  and  had  just  been  made  Poet  Laureate 
by    Lord    Salisbury,    when    my    beloved    friend 
Admiral  Maxse  took  me  down  to  the  country  to 
see  Meredith  for  the  first  time.    Feeling  more  than 
usually  stupid,  I  said  to  him: 

"Well  Mr.  Meredith,  I  wonder  what  your  friend 
Alfred  Austin  thinks  of  his  appointment?" 
Shaking  his  beautiful  head  he  replied: 
"It  is  very  hard  to  say  what  a  bantam  is  thinkinp 
when  it  is  crowing." 

•Vijcount  Morley  ot  Blackburn. 

[«i] 


:fl 


•1," 

Hi 


'I 

■  ■ 


i*mii.-"i% 


^*l 


.1? 

MX 


^^^ 


I. 


I 


fit  ; 


MARGOT  ASQUITII 

Symonds'  conversation  is  described  in  Steven- 
sou^.  essny  on  Talks  ami  Talkers,  hut  no  one  could 
ever  really  give  the  fancy,  the  epigram,  the  swift- 
ness and  earnestness  with  which  he  not  only  ex- 
pressed himself  but  engaged  you  in  conversation. 
This  and  iiis  affection  combined  to  make  him  an 
enchanting  companion. 

The   Swiss  postmen  and  woodmen  constantly 
jomed  us  at  midnight  and  drank  Italian  wines  out 
of  beautiful  glass  which  our  host  had  brought  from 
Venice;  and  they  were  our  only  interruptions  when 
Mrs.  Symonds  and  the  handsome  girls  went  to  bed. 
I  have  many  memories  of  seeing  our   peasant 
friends  off  from  Sjononds'  front  door,  and  standing 
by  his  side  in  the  dark,  listening  to  the  crack  of  their 
whips  and  their  yodels  yelled  far  down  the  snow 
roads  into  the  starry  skies. 

When  I  first  left  him  and  returned  to  England 
Mrs.  Symonds  told  me  he  sat  up  all  night,  filling 
a  blank  book  with  his  own  poems  ana  translations, 
which  he  posted  to  me  in  the  early  morning.  VVe 
corresponded  till  he  died;  and  I  have  kept  every 
letter  that  he  ever  wrote  to  me. 

He  was  the  first  person  who  besought  me  to 
write.    If  only  he  were  alive  now.  I  would  show  him 
[62] 


I  ''i 

i      I 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

this  manuscript  and,  if  any  one  could  make  any 
thing  of  it  hy  counsel,  sympathy  and  encourage- 
ment; my  autobiography  might  become  famous. 

"Vou  have  I'orcillc  juste"  he  would  say,  "and  I 
value  your  literary  judgment," 

I  will  here  insert  some  of  his  letters,  beginning 
with  the  one  he  sent  down  to  our  villa  at  Davos 
a  propos  of  the  essays  over  which  Lady  London- 
derry and  I  had  our  little  breeze: 

I  am  at  work  upon  a  volume  of  essays  in  art  and 
criticism,  puzzling  to  my  brain  and  not  easy  to 
write.    I  think  I  shall  ask  you  to  read  them. 

I  want  an  intelligent  audience  before  I  publish 
them.  I  want  to  "try  them  on"  somebody's  mind 
—like  a  dress— to  see  how  they  fit.  Only  you  must 
promise  to  write  observaticns  and,  most  killing 
remark  of  all,  to  say  when  the  tedium  of  read- 
mg  thf-m  begins  to  overweigh  the  profit  of  my 
philosophy. 

I  think  you  could  help  me. 

After  the  publication  he  wrote: 

I  am  sorry  that  the  Essays  I  dedicated  to  you 
have  been  a  failure— as  I  think  they  have  been— 
to  judge  by  the  opinions  of  the  Press.  I  wanted, 
when  I  wrote  them,  only  to  say  the  simple  truth  of 
what  I  thought  and  felt  in  the  very  simplest 
language  I  could  find. 

[63] 


f*: 


•w"^ 


I! 


ii 


f 


f. 


MARGOT  ASQUITII 


What  the  critics  say   is  that   I   have   uttered 
trmsms  m  the  baldest,  least  attractive  diction. 

uniiX      F     ?.  '">''^^''*".*"    ^^'   J"dffed,   and   not 
unjustly.     In  the  pursuit  of  truth.  I  said  what  I 

r ;  mn?  '"'i  ^^'"ntly-and  it  seen.s  I  had  nothing  but 
commonplaces    o  give  forth.     In  the  search  for 

Us  W  ^t?^  '*-'^';/  "^"^"^  ^'-'^y  proposition  to 
ts  I  arest  iorm  of  language.    And  that  abnegation 

Iflaces    '''        ''"""^'^  *'^"  ""^'*>^  «^  ™y  «on" 

coni,m"'I»,*^{  ^  *''''■'  r  ^'''^"'^'  *•>«*  I  cannot 
S^JmytL:"""*  ''"^  *'"  ^""  ^^  "-  *° 
So.  when  I  finally  withdraw  from  further 
appeals  to  the  public,  as  I  mean  to  do,  I  cannot 
pose  as  a  Prospero  who  breaks  his  staff.  I  am  only 
a  somewhat  sturdy,  highly  nervous  varlet  in  The 
sphere  of  art,  who  has  sought  to  wear  the  robe  of 
te  magican-and  bemg  now  disrobed,  takes  his 

to  hold  h!s  tongue   m   future,  since  his   proper 
function  has  been  shown  him.  proper 

Thus  it  is  with  me.    And  I  should  not,  my  dear 
friend,  have  mflicted  so  much  of  myself  uZ  you 

;  f  mvlowe;  ""'"''"^:'  T'  '"  ^'"'^  -i-aicukC 
ot  niy  powers,  connected  your  name  with  the  book 
which  proves  mv  incomj^elence 

,  irno  I'  :T  ^'"*  '"^'  "'"  '*  *"  *^"  ^^«*  '-^nd  noblest 
iUirpose.  do  not,  when  yo„  are  old  and  f,roken  like 
me,  sit  m  the  middle  of  the  ruins  of  Carthage  you 
have  vain  y  conquered,  as  I  am  doing  now 

Dr.  Jowett.  Master  of  BaJliol.  °  nuw. 

[64] 


.Uti^it'V  ■  ^ '•>^J»>. 


if 


^5^' 


m 

I 


..Ol.lR.V     WKBll:    „,M»IH    ,,|      IMC    Sol  ,  s    A  XI.   ,i,  ,I.H1  , 1 1  H 
Ol     l'KI.\iKS>   HIBISIO 


I 


s^^BaMOMi 


I 

■■■* 
iji' 


[I. 


•> 
I' 

■'c 

11 


ssm'im^mmmM. 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Now  good  hye.     Kce,,  any  of  mv  letters  whirl, 
Hme  Dttter.    I  keep  a  great  many  of  yours     Y,ni 

p  c     T  •  ..  J.  A.  Symoxds. 

me     IlikeTotS    W  happy.    Do  not  forget 
art  vitv     I  '1 1-^'""  '"  P'*^"'t"'le  of  life  ami 

your  tek    ;    ;  ;  ".*  '^t"""*'*^  ^"'-  >-«"  'f  >-"»  '''-"^e 
Master  r  want  v'  ^"*'"^^  fi^'^^'     But,*  like   the 

dolorous,  long.  JarL  nigl^lJ^S^Tni  jl^    '"^^•*^''^^' 
Later  on,  ^  ;,,o/.o.v  of  his  translation  of  the 

Autobiography  of  Benvenuto  CelJini.  he  wrote: 
I  am  so  ghid  that  yoi,  like  my  Cellini     T»i«  j      i 

My  dear  ArARGOT, 

suVT3    i     T^  syllogism  describing  Cellini's 
state  of  mind  as  to  Bourbon's  death. 

[65] 


> 


(; 


hi 


if 

H 

I., 

I 
t . 


fl 


.i3 


li: 


tfl 


M/\ll(i()T  ASQUITU 


li 


it 


' 


It  is  true.  I  think,  what  yen  say:  that  I  hnvn 
been  Kett.n^  nu.re  ncrv.,..  'and  lc4  c Orate  I,' 

tal", /Is- >""':;     'i''"«  i«  very  natural.     One 
starts    in    ilk-    with    scnsiions    susceMtibiJities    h, 
-auty.  w.th  a  strcn^  feeling.  f.,r  eooV^T^    f 
me  odious  cadence,   and   also   with   an    n    uls    e 

>ounK    >V"^k    to    seem    decorated    and    h.houred 
u-hereas  ,t  very  often  is  really  spo,  t an  .    i 

hasty,  n,ore  instructive  a,.d  straiKl.tJorward  t " 
the  work  of  nmidle  life.     I  write  riowwnuc 
more  trouble  and  n.ore  slowly,  an.l  with  n    el Tss 
ntcrest  u.  .ny  subject  than  I  us.-d  to  .lo.    This  Ir  n's 
me  nmrc  ron.nmn.l  over  the  vehicle.  lanKua^e  Han 
I  used  to  have.     I  write  what  pleases  n    srl '•   Is 
but^what  probably  strikes  <,theJ  peo ple'l^.ort. '""' 
mvself  .'  ^.  n"^'  •''^7>u'-se;  In.t  not  so  much  about 
m>stlt  as  apnears.    I  was  struck  with  vour  insi.'ht 

ot  stvJe  uhich  v.M,  pouit  r.ut.  and  which  results    1 
thnik.  fron,  colder,  nu^re  laborious,  dull  r  eir'rt  ^ 
one  ffrows  in  years.  'k'  tiiort  as 

The  artist  ou«bt  never  t<,  be  conunanded  by  his 
.subject  or  h.s  vehicle  of  expression.  Jiut  until  he 
ceases  to  l,>ve  both  with  a  blin.l  passi  Ic  v  | 
probably  ho  so  couu.ianded.  And  then  hi  stvle 
w  1.  appear  decorative,  flori.l.  .nixed  ,,ne(,ual 
laboured.  It  is  the  sobriety  of  a  satiatec  ;.r  £^^ 
enthusiasm  which  makes  the  literarv  artist  iZ 
ouKht  to  remember  his  .lithyrambic  nioo  s  I  "ut  n o^ 
to^be  subject  to  them  any  longer,  nor  to  ye^lrn  Ift^r 

Do  you  kiiow  that  I  have  only  just  now  found 
[66J 


ft— •i.  4 


AN  AITTOKIOGKAF'HY 

the  time,  durin^r  niy  loiip  <lay.s  ami  i.i^hts  in  bed 
with  n.HucM/a  and  hronchitis.  t..  read  Marie  Hash- 
♦lir  V  .  (I)i«  ever  name  s„  puz/hn^  ^row  upon 
the  \  ^nlrasil  „r  even  Hiissian  lifef) 

By  this  time  \  (Ml  must  he  cpjitc  tired  of  hearing 
from  your  triemls  how  mueh  Marie  Hashkirtseff 
reminds  them  of  you. 

I  eannot  helj>  it.  I  must  sav  it  once  airain.  I 
am  such  n  fossil  tluii  I  permit  mvself  the  most 
antediluvian  remarks-if  1  think  thev  have  a  |/rain 
ot  truth  in  them.  Of  course,  the  dissimilarities  are 
quite  as  striking  as  the  likenesses.  Xo  two  leaves 
on  one  linden  arc  really  the  same.  But  you  and 
she.  detached  from  the  forest  of  life,  seem  to  me 
like  leaves  plucked  from  the  same  sort  of  tree 

It  IS  a  very  wonderful  hook.  If  „nlv  mctMicurs 
Ic.<,rnmanarr,couh\  plioto^rra,,!,  experience  in  their 
tiction  as  she  has  done  in  some  of  her  paiics'  The 
episode  of  Paehay,  short  as  that  is.  is  masterlv- 
ahove  the  reach  of  «alzae;  how  far  ahove  the 
laborious,  heetle-fli^rht  of  Henry  .Tames!  Above 
even  George  Meredith.  It  is  what  James  would 
Sive  his  right  hand  to  do  once.     The  episode  of 

the  other  ''  ''^''^  ^""'^'  ^*'"'  ^"*  ""*  ^"  exquisite  as 

,  '^}^^!^  '^  something  pathetic  about  both  "A  so- 
lando  and  "Demeter,"  those  shrivelled  blossoms 
trom  the  stout  old  laurels  touched  with  frost  of 
winter  and  ..Id  a^,-.  But  I  find  little  to  dwell  upon 
in  either  of  them.  Browning  has  more  sap  of  life— 
lennyson  more  ripe  and  mellow  mastery.  Each 
IS  liere  in  the  main  reproducing  his  mannerism. 
1  am  writing  to  you,  you  see,  just  as  if  I  had  not 

[67] 


i>: 


« 


1 


if 

(it* 


MAiuarr  asquith 

been  silent  for  .s,»  long.     I  take  v.„.  at  your  wor.l 
nn.l  cxpct  Marmot  to  be  always  the  sa.ni  to  a'm'' 

ff  you  were  only  I.ere!    Keats  said  that  "heard 
How  Sr  "''"'*•  '"'  *'"'''^  ""'•^■"'•^  «-  — t"^" 

Ye  i,  thus  it  is:  somewhere  by  me 

I  nheard.  by  n.e  unfelt.  unknown, 
Ihe  lau^rhm^,  rippling  notes  of  thee 

Arc  sounding  still;  while  1  alone 
Am  left  to  sit  and  sigh  and  sav— 
i*Iusic  unheard  is  sweet  as  they. 

hZ^t  'f""  "'"'"f"*"^'  nKH.d,  and  no  light  bubble- 
breath  of  improvisatory  verse.    It  expresses  whnf 
I  often  feel  when,  after* a  long  night' 'work  I  hlh 
my  eand  e  and  take  a  look  before  1  go  to  bed  at  vn,  r 
portrait  in  the  eorner  of  mv  stove  ^  ^''"' 

Am  Hof, 
Davos  Plat?, 
Switzerland, 
MYnEARMARooT.  ^ept.  27tk,  IS91. 

.J  T  "r","^'"^'  •^°"  ^^""^  yo'T  two  typewritten 

records.     1  hev  are  both  very  interesting.Te  one  a" 

autobiographieal  and  a  study  of  your^milyrthe 

[68]  ^' 


u   \ 


Maei^j'.t. 


sm 


AN  AIJTOBKKJHAPIIV 

other  as  u  vivi.l  a,,,!  I  tim.k.  justly  critical  picture 
ot  r«(lst.,„e.  It  w.ll  have  a  great  litenuv  value 
Mmjetune      1  ,|o  „„t  ,,uite  feel  uith  .I.mvtt,  who 

W«n,/  (.la.ls „„c.  Hut  I  feel  that  you  have  nirced 
an  extremely  ,,„wert'ul  an.l  brilliani  <n,Kcption 
which  IS  impressive  and  e.:nvinein«  herauv  of  your 
|.|)vi„us  sincerity  and  breadth  of  view.  The  nnrelv 
biograplueal  and  literary  value  of  this  lit  ,,/  work 
seems  to  me  very  ^eat.  and  mak.  s  nie  keenly  wish 
that  you  would  record  all  your  .utcstiuLr  expe- 
riences and  your  first-hand  studies  of  exceptional 
personalities  in  the  same  way. 

Gradually,  by  doing  this,  you  W()ul<l  ... .  uniiilate 
material  ot  real  importance;  much  befar  than 
novels  or  stories,  and  more  valuable  than  the  oas- 
'""rv  1  V***^'"""^'*^'*  "^  personal  emotion. 

Did  I  ever  show  you  the  record  I  privately 
printed  of  an  evening  passed  !)y  me  at  Woolner,  the 
sculptor  s  when  Ciladstone  met  Tennyson  for  the 
first  time?  If  1  had  been  able  to  enjoy  inore  of  such 
mcidents.  I  should  also  have  made  documents  Hut 
my  opportunities  have  been  limited.  For  future 
historians,  the  illuminative  value  of  such  writing 
will  be  incomparable.  ** 

TmL'^T^'^  Jt"""?,  '.^"'^  *^^  *^"  P'^^«  back  to 
J.len.  Which  I  will  do,  together  with  this  letter. 
l.et  nie  see  what  you  w,  fe.  1  think  you  have  a  very 
penetrative  glimpse  into  character,  which  comes 
irom  perfect  disengagement  and  sympathy  con- 
trolled by  a  critical  sense.  The  absence  of  egotism 
IS  a  great  point.  " 


[69] 


1  ! 


iH 


I' 

I 


'^t 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

When  Symcnds  died  I  lost  my  best  intellectual 
tutor  as  well  a.  cne  <,f  ,„y  dearest  friends.    I  wish  I 
had  taken  his  adviee  and  seriously  tried  to  write 
years  ago,  hut,  exeept  for  a  few  magazine  sketches, 
I  have  never  written  a  line  for  publication  in  mv 
hie    I  have  only  kept  a  careful  and  accurate  diary  * 
and  her.   in  the  interests  of  my  publishers  and  at 
the  nsk  of  being  thought  egotistical,  it  is  not  inan- 
propr.ate  that  I  sho.dd  publish  the  following  letters 
m  connection  with  these  diaries  and  niy  writing: 

21  Caelyxe  Mansions, 
Cheyne  ^Valk, 
S.  W. 

My  dear  Margot  Asquitii       "^^"^^  '"^''  '^'^• 
By  what  felicity  of  .livination  were  vou  insnir^rl 

indeed,  at  your  general  presumption   o  ?hlt  effeo  ' 

"c«.  b.,  je,iyrdi.j„i„,'e,"l,",u>„;;;„2  »;;'.;„ '""  -f  c...„,.; 

[70] 


h 


h 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

life  and  force  and  colour,  of  a  remarkable  instinct 
tor  getting  close  to  your  people  and  things  and  for 
squeezing,  in  the  case  of  the  resolute  portraits  of 
certain  of  your  eminent  characters,  especially  the 
last  drop  of  truth  and  sense  out  of  tliem— at*  least 
as  the  originals  affected  j/our  singularly  searching 
vision.  Happy,  then,  those  who  had,  of  this  essence, 
the  fewest  secrets  or  crooked  lives  to  yield  up  to 
you— for  the  more  complicated  and  unimaginable 
some  of  them  appear,  the  more  you  seem  to  me  to 
have  caught  and  mastered  them.     Then  I   have 
found  myself  hanging  on  your  impression  in  each 
case  with   the  liveliest  suspense  and  wonder,  so 
thriUingly  does  the  expression  keep  abreast  of  it 
and  really  translate  it.  This  and  your  extraordinary 
fullness  of  opportunity,  make  of  the  record  a  most 
valuable  English  document,  a  rare  revelation  of  the 
human  inwardness  of  political  life  in  this  country, 
and  a  picture  of  manners  and  personal  characters 
as  "creditable"  on  the  whole  (to  the  country)  as  it 
IS  frank  and  acute.    The  beauty  is  that  5'ou  write 
with  such  authority,  that  you've  seen  so  much  and 
lived  and  moved  so  much,  and  that  having  so  the 
chance  to  observe  and  feel  and  discriminate  in  the 
light  of  so  much  high  pressure,  you  haven't  been 
m  the  least  afraid,  but  have  faced  and  assimilated 
and  represented  for  all  you're  worth. 

I  have  lived,  you  see,  wholly  out  of  the  inner 
ciiTle  of  pol'"tical  life,  and  yet  more  or  less  in  won- 
dering sight,  for  years,  of  many  of  its  outer  appear- 
ances, and  in  superficial  contact — though  this, 
indeed,  pretty  anciently  now— with  various  actors 
and  figures,  standing  off  from  them  on  my  (piite 

[71] 


vC 


U' 


f[\ 


II 


MARGOT  ASQOITH 


M 


I 


fearful  directLwelT^n'^^^^       ^'r'^^'  ^^^^ 
and  lead  me  Ck  and  in    "   f^lu'  '^^  *'^^  ^^"d 

I  dimly  maTyou    utrXn  rVfl".?  ""'.' 
my  nose  affainsf  th^  c^   *^    .  "f  ^^""«=  ^  flattened 

there  witlX^t  nglhe  tTrts"'lT,""''  y™.""' 
in«  lh.m  over  the  "counter    'j  '^  L^7^'  '"■^"<'- 

aWrre5-£j-n»re;^n 
but  yea  open  un  fh!  it  ^""""Smgly  (in  the  past) ; 
therefore,  the  exDerfenp?'    /  ^^  ."^  experience, 

fe^rfo£S»"™^^^^ 

nnn  t,t,.*  •       ^"'"ff'  "Ut  the  book  itself  renllv 


i 

i 


AX  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

trait  of  a  lady,  with  no  end  of  finish  and  style,  is 
thereby  projected,  and  if  I  don't  stop  now,  I  shall 
he  calling  it  a  regular  masterpiece.  Please  belie-  e 
how  truly  touched  I  am  by  your  confidence  in  your 
faithful,  though  old,  friend, 

Hexkv  James. 

My  dear  and  distinguished  friend  Lord  Morley 
sent  me  the  following  letter  of  the  1.3t!i  of  Septem- 
ber, 1919,  and  it  was  in  conseciuence  of  this  letter 
that,  two  months  afterwards,  on  November  the 
11th,  1919,  I  began  to  write  this  book: 

Fl,()\\  KHMEAl), 
PttJXfES  KOAI), 

VViiviBiJ.Dox  Park,  S.W., 

^        „        ,  September  loth,  1919. 

Dear  Mrs.  Asquith, 

Your  kindest  of  letters  gave  nie  uncommon 
pleasure,  both  personal  and  literary.  Personal, 
because  I  like  to  know  that  we  are  still  afTectionate 
friends,  as  we  have  been  for  such  long,  important 
and  trying  years.  Literary— because  ii  is  a  brilliant 
example  of  that  character-writing  in  which  the 
French  so  indisjjutably  beat  us.  If  you  like,  you 
can  be  as  keen  and  brilliant  and  penetrating  as 
Madame  de  Sevigne  or  the  best  of  them,  and  if  I 
were  a  publisher,  I  would  tempt  you  by  high  emolu- 
ments and  certainty  of  fame.  Vou  ask  mc  to  leave 
you  a  book  when  I  deiJart  this  life.  If  1  were  your 
generous  wcli-wisher,  I  should  not  leave,  but  give 
you,  my  rather  full  collection  of  French  Memoirs 

[73] 


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MARGOT  ASQllTH 

n,      '^,^^%'l"t'""«  ^'<"Hi  or  intcrf. sling  to  tclj  v"  u  .,f 
'"ysdl.     My  strength  will  stan.I  r.ofux  up  um" 
I'f  f..<i..c-st  Cro,,,  ,ny  old  friend*  ,n  An  "i  -a  was 

mm  ,iiii  I  rent  we  were  m  trainin-  eharieter  l-ist.r 
temperament.  I  was  first  intr^Juee  1  .  in  JiV h 
conmiendatioM  hv  Mr  AmolrJ  ^,  "/*'."'">  ^^t'' 
wnsn'f  .+  /-     Ti    ii         .  .'    "'*^"">"»— a    ennons    trio. 

he  A  r  •  .  '''"'f';*'  •''"^^  «'«'*  I"^""!  of  it  that 
he.  A.  C,  introduced  M.  A.  a,Hj  n.e  to  the  Cniled 

I  wateh  events  and  men  here  prettv  viLrilir.flv 
w.th  what  ^.,KKl  and  hopeful  spirits'youTa,?^  ^^^^^^ 
U  icn  you  return  do  i)ay  me  a  visit      Th,      '^ 

Always,  always,  your  affectionate  friend, 

J.  M. 

When  T  had  been  wrestling  with  this  auto- 
J'iogrnphy  for  two  months  I  wrote  and  told  John 
Morley  of  my  venture,  and  thl.  is  his  reply: 

FloAVERME/U), 

Pkin'ces  Road, 
VViMBL£DON  Park, 
SAV., 
Dk.b  .Vf«.  AsQrrTH.  i-f'^-.  1920). 

A    hire    a.   tlie  mr  b^   ^eadv   whispered  the 

[74j 


mmim 


AN  AirTOinOGHAPIIV 

mattpr  of  your  literary  venture,  and  I  neither  had 
nor  ha\-  any  doubt  at  all  that  the  publisher  knew 
very  well  what  he  was  about.  The  book  will  be 
bri^dit  in  real  knowle^j^n'  of  the  world;  rieh  in  points 
of  life;  syrupatlietie  with  human  nature,  which  in 
stren<rth  and  weakness  is  never  petty  or  small. 

l|c  sure  to  trust  mmrsclf:  and  don't  worry  about 
crities.  \\m  need  no  words  to  tell  you  how  warmly 
I  am  interested  in  your  ^^reat  d'^sii^ni.    PcrsiTirc. 

How  kind  to  bid  me  to  your  royal*  meal,  IJut  I 
am  too  old  for  eomi)any  that  would  be  so  new,  so 
<lon't  take  it  amiss,  my  btst  ol"  friends,  if  1  ask  to 
be  bidden  when  I  should  sec  more  of  //o//.  You 
don't  know  how  didl  a  man,  onee  li  tly,  can  degen- 
erate into  being. 

Your  always  affectionate  and  grate  fu I 

J.  MoRI.EY. 


To  return  to  my  triumphant  youth:  I  will  end 
this  chapter  with  a  note  whieh  mv  friend.  Lady 
Frances  Halfour — one  of  the  few  women  f)f  out- 
standing intellect  that  I  have  known  -  sent  me  from 
her  father,  the  late  Duke  of  Argyll,  the  wonderful 
orator  of  whom  it  was  said  that  he  was  like  a  earmon 
being  fired  of!"  by  a  eanar>'. 

Frances  asked  me  to  meet  him  at  a  -imall  dinner 
and  placed  me  next  to  him.     In  the  course  of  our 

•I  Lnnted  him  to  meet  the  Prince  of  Waits. 

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MARGOT  ASQUITH 

conversation,  he  quoted  these  words  that  he  had 
heard  m  a  sermon  preached  by  Dr.  Caird- 

•'Oh!  for  the  time  when  Chureh  and  State  shall 
no  longer  be  the  watchword  of  opposing,  hosts,  when 
-^ry  n.an  shall  he  a  priest  and  every  priest  shall  be 

wit^'  ''  ''r'*  ''''*'^"^  ''''^  righteousness,  as  king 
with  power!  *» 

I  made  him  write  them  down  for  me.  and  we  dis- 
cussed rcl.gion,  preachers  and  politics  at  some 
length  before  I  went  home. 

The  next  morning  he  wrote  to  his  daughter: 

Ahgvll  Lodge, 
Deae  Fbances.  Kensington. 

How  dare  you  ask  me  to  meet  a  sjpen. 

Your  affectionate, 

A. 


[76] 


I 

i 


CHAPTER  II 

CHARACTER  SKETCH  OF  MAROOT-PLANS  TO  START  A 
MA0.Y2INE_MEETS  MASTIR  „i.-  baI.LIOL; 
JOWETTS  ORVHODOXY;  his  INTEREST  IX  AND 
INFLUENCE  OVER  MAHGOT— HOSE  IN  "KOBFRT 
ELSMERE'  IDENTIFIED  AS  MAR(JOT— JOWETt's 
OPINION  or  NEWMAN- JOAVETT  ADVISES  MAR- 
GOT  TO  MARRY— HUXLEY'S   HLASl'HEMY 

J  SHALL  open  this  cliapter  of  niy  autobiog- 
raphy with  a  character-sketch  of  myself,  writ- 
ten at  Glen  in  one  of  our  pencil-games  in  January, 
1888.  Xearly  every  one  in  the  room  guessed  that  I 
was  the  subject,  but  opinions  differed  as  to  the  au- 
thorship. Some  thought  that  our  dear  and  clever 
friend,  Godfrey  Webb,  had  written  it  as  a  sort  of 
joke. 

"In  appearance  she  was  small,  with  rapid,  nervous 
niovement..;  energetic,  never  wholly  ungraceful,  but 
inclined  to  be  restless.  Her  face  did  not  l)etray  the 
intelligence  she  possessed,  as  her  eyes,  though  clear 
and  well-shaped,  were  too  close  together.  Her 
hawky  nose  was  bent  over  a  short  up])er  lip  and 

[77] 


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MARGOT  ASQUITH 

meaningless  mouth.    The  chin  showed  more  definite 
character  than  her  other  features,  hein^  lar^e,  hony 
and   prominent,   and   she  had   curly,   pretty  hair, 
growing  well  on  a  tinely-cut  forehead;  the  ensemble 
healthy  and  mohile;  in  manner  easy,  unself-con- 
scious.  emphatic    inclined  to  oe  noisy  from  over- 
keenness  and  perfectly  self-possessed.    Conversa- 
tion graphic  anrl  exaggerated,  eager  and  concen- 
trated,  with   a  natural  gift  of  expression.    Her 
honesty  more  a  peculiarity  than  a  virtue.    Decision 
more  of  institict  than  of  reason;  a  disengaged  mind 
wholly  unfettered  hy  prejudice.     Very  observant 
and  a  fine  judge  of  her  fellow-creatures,  finding  all 
interesting  and  worthy  of  her  speculation.    She  was 
not  easily  depressed  by  antagonistic  circumstances 
or  social  situations  hostile  to  herself— on  the  con- 
trary, her  spirit  rose  in  all  losing  games.    She  was 
assisted  in  this  by  having  no  personal  vanity,  the 
highest  vitality  and  great  self-confidence.    She  was 
self-indulgent,   though   not   selfish,    and   had   not 
enough  self-control  for  her  passion  and  impetu- 
osity; it  was  owing  more  to  dash  and  grit  than  to 
any  foresight  that  she  kept  out  of  diffit.jlties.    She 
distrusted  the  dried-up  advice  of  many  people,  who 
prefer  coining  evil  to  pul)lishing  good.     She  was 
""  [78] 


■tF 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

lackinif  in  awe,  and  no  respocter  of  persons;  loving 
old  people  hecjiusc  she  never  felt  they  were  old. 
Warm-hearted,  and  with  much  power  of  devotion, 
thinking  no  trouble  too  great  to  take  for  those  you 
love,  and  agreeing  with  Dr.  Johnson  that  friend- 
ships should  be  kept  in  eonstant  repair.    Too  many 
interests  and  too  many-sided.    Fond  of  people,  ani- 
mals, books,  sport,  music,  art  and  exercise.    More 
Bohemian  than  exclusive  and  with  a  certain  power 
of  investing  acquaintances  and  even  bores  with  in- 
terest.   Passionate  love  of   Nature.     Tracking   in 
devotio:.al,  practising  religion;  otherwise  sensitively 
religious.    Sensible;  not  easily  influenced  for  good 
or  evil.     Jealous,  keen  and  faithful  in  affection. 
Great  want  of  plodding  perseverance,  doing  many 
things  with  promise  and  nothing  well.    A  fine  ear 
for  music:  no  execution;  a  good  eye  for  drawing: 
no  knowledge  or  practice  in  perspective ;  more  crit- 
ical than  constructive.    Very  cool  and  decided  with 
horses.     Good  nerve,  gix)d  whip  and  a  fine  rider. 
Intellectually    self-made,    ambitious,    independent 
and  self-willed.    Fond  of  admiration  and  love  from 
both  men  and  women,  and  able  to  giv  it." 

I  sent  this  to  Dr.  Jowett  with  another  characttr- 

[79] 


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MAHCiOT  ASQL  ITH 

sketch  of  Gladstone.    After  reading  ihcui,  he  wrote 
me  this  letter: 

Ball.  Coix. 
Mv  d,.:ar  Maboot  ^^''-  "^''^'  '«««• 

1  n-rv.?  *''"  'r-'^*  '''^''^■^'  >'""  •^"f"«te.l  to  „.e: 
;,;''  '\'''>'.  "•"^■^'  "itercstcl  hy  il.  The  si  r!,!,  of 
Gladstone  .s  oxeelIe„f.  IVay  write  so  u  ,  ,!!  f 
•t^some  tune:  I  understand  Inn.  belter  aft"    ,■<  .,d- 

The  yonn^r   lady's   portrait   of  herself  is  ,n,ite 
tn^uIa,.notatainiattere<^ 
or  two.       Slu  IS  very  snieere  and  extreni  Iv  elever- 

If  you  kiuny  her,  will  you  t( !!  her  with  nu-  Invn 

T  w  sh  that  she  wo,dd  take  eounsel  with  her'se 
She  has  ,na,le  a  ^r^eat  position,  thouj^h  slippery    nj 
<l/'MK(Tous:  wdl  she  not  add  to  this  a       lie  -m 
-"Pi;-.l'/e  whieh  ean  alone  ^,ive  a  true\a     '  to  "t' 
I  he.  h,^d.cT  we  rise,  the  more  self-diseiplire    se  f 
contro  and  economy  is  re,,uired  of  us.    I    is  -i  h  irl 
th.n^  to  he  in  the  worhl  hut  not  of   t;  to  he  o  t 
wardly  nnuh  lik.  other  people  and  v!^  to  he  ei;;!  ." 

A  a,„,n,n„p,a.,  hook  with  „  few  written  sket;hcs  of  people  in  it. 


i 


AX  AUTOmoCHAPIIY 

isFiiti^  un  ideal  ulijch  fxtcnds  over  the  wlinli-  of  life 
niu\  heyniid;  to  have  ji  natural  love  for  every  one, 
espeeially  for  the  p.,  ,•;  t(,  ,ret  rid.  not  of  wit  or  ^rood' 
humour,  hut  of  friv(.lity  and  excitement;  to  live 
"selfless'*  aecoMJitiir  to  the  Will  of  (J,.,!  and  not 
after  the  fashtons  and  opinions  of  men  uid  women. 

Stimulated  by  this  and  the  encoijraKemcnt  of 
Lionel  Tennyson-  a  new  friend  ~1  was  anxious  to 
start  a  newspaper.     When  I  was  a  little  girl  at 
(ill  n.  theif  hud  been  a  schoolroom  paper,  called 
"The  aim  GoKsip:  Tin-  Tcniumt  TatUr.  or  The 
PccUvxshire  Pratllrr."    I  lulieve  my  brother  Kddy 
wrote  the  wittiest  verses  in  it;  but  1  was  too  yo.mff 
to  remember  much  alxMit  it  or  to  contribute  i\ny- 
Ihin^r.     I  had  many  d.  tin/ruished  friends  by  that 
time,  all  of  v   loni  had  promised  to  write  for  me. 
The  id(  a  was  four  or  five  nmnbers  lo  be  illustrated 
by  my  sister  I.ucy  Graham  Smith,  and  a  brilliant 
!ett«  r-press.  but,  in  spite  of  much  discussion  among 
ourselves,  it  .amc  to  nothin^r.     ]  have  always  re- 
gretted this,  as,  looking  at  the  names  of  the  contrib- 
utors and  the  programme  for  the  first  number,  I 
think  it  might  have  been  a  succos.    The  title  of  the 
paper  gave  us  infinite  tn)ubif.  We  ended  by  adopt- 
ing a  suggestion  of  my  own.  ami  oor  new  venture 
was  to  have  been  called  "To-tuomnc"    This  is  the 

[81] 


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MARGOT  ASQUITH 

list  of  people  who  promised  to  write  for  me,  and  the 
names  they  suggested  for  the  paper: 


Lord  and  Lady  Pembroke      Sympathetic  Ink. 

The  Idh  Pen. 


Mr.  A.  Lyttelton 

Mr.    Knowles 
Mr.  A.  J.  Balfour 

Mr.  Oscar  Wilde 
Lady  Ribblesdale 

Margot    Tennant 

Mr.     Webb 
Mrs.    Homer 
Miss  Mary  Leslie 

Sir  A.    We^      .     . 
Mr.  J.  A.  Symonds  - 


The  Mail. 
The  Kile. 
Blue  Ink. 

-      The  Hen. 
The  Cluck. 

■  The  Butterfly. 

■  The  New  Eve. 
Anonymoiu. 
Mr*.  Orundy. 

The  Life  Improver. 
Mr*.  Orundy'*  Daughter. 

Jane. 
Ptyche. 
The  Meuk. 

The  Mangle. 

Eve. 

Dolly   Vard^n. 

To-morrow, 

The  Petticoat. 

She. 

The  Sphinx. 
Eglantine. 
Blue  Veil. 
Pinafore. 

The  Spinnet. 

The  Spinning-Whetl. 

Mute*  and  Grace*. 
Cauitrie*  en  peignoir. 
Woman'*  Wit  and  Humour. 


The  contributors  on  our  staff  were  to  have  been 
Laurence  OKphant,  J.  K.  Stephen,  Mr.  Wilfrid 
[82] 


I' I 

(I: 


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AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Blunt,  Hon.  Geoi-ge  Curzon,  George  Wyndham, 

Godfrey  Webb,  Doll  Liddell,  Harry  Cust,  Mr. 

Knowles  (the  editor  of  the  Nineteenth  Century), 

the  Hon.  A.  Lyttelton,  Mr.  A.  J.  Balfour,  Oscar 

Wilde,  Lord  and  Lady  Ribblesdale,  Mrs.    (now 

Lady)  Horner,  Sir  Algernon  West,  Lady  Frances 

Balfour,  Lord  and  Lady  Pembroke,  Miss  Betty 

Ponsonby  (tKe  present  Mrs.  Montgomery),  John 

Addington  Symonds,  Dr.  Jowett  (the  Master  of 

Balliol),  M.  Coquelin,   Sir  Tlenry  Irving,  Miss 

Ellen    Terry,    Sir    Edward    Burne-Jones,    Mr. 

George  Russell,  Mrs.  Singleton  (alias  Violet  Fane, 

afterwards  Lady  Currie),  Lady  de  Grey,  Lady 

Constance  Leslie  and  the  Hon.  Lionel  Tennyson. 

Our  programme  for  the  first  number  was  to  have 

been  the  following: 

To-Moamow 

n'T^   •  .  ,  ^.              Persons   and   Politirs  Margot   Tennant. 
Ihe  Social  Zodiac          Rise  and   fall   of 

Professional  Beauties  Ladv  de  Grey. 

Oceattonal   Article*        The  Green-eyed  Violet    Kane    (nom- 

Monster  de-plume  of 

/I        •       ,    ,T  ^  *''■''•      Singleton). 

Oceaswnal   Notes  Foreign  and  Colonial 

„  .   ,„  Gossip  Harry   Cust. 

Men  and   Women  Character   Sketch  Margot   Tennant. 

°'<"^  Oscar   Wilde. 

(^"f"*         -    , Godfrey   Webb. 

Letter,   to   Men George  Wyndham. 

Book,  Reviewed John  Addington 

„  .  Sv  aonds. 

Convertatum* Mj,^    Ponsonby. 

[83] 


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MAUGOT  ASQIJITH 

This  is  what  I  wrote  for  the  first  ni  mber: 
"Persons  and  Politics 

"In  Politics  the  conunon  opinion  is  that  measures 
are  the  important  thing,  and  that  men  are  mereh 
the  instruments  whieh  each  generation  produces, 
equal  or  .mequal  to  the  accomplishment  of  them. 

"This  is  a  mistake.    The  majority  of  mankind 
desire  nothing  so  much  as  to  be  led.    They  have  no 
opinions  of  their  own,  and,  half  from  caution,  half 
from  laziness,  are  willing  to  leave  the  responsibility 
to  any  stronger  person.    It  is  the  personality  of  the 
man  which  makes  the  masses  turn  to  him,  gives  in- 
fluence to  his  ideas  while  he  lives,  and  causes  him  to 
be  remembered  after  both  he  and  his  work  are  dead. 
From    the   time    of   Moses    downwards,    history 
abounds  in  such  examples.    In  the  present  century 
Xapoleon  and  Gladstone  have  perhaps  impressed 
themselves  most  dramatically  on  the  public  mind, 
and,  in  a  lesser  degree,  Disraeli  and  Parnell.    The' 
greatest  men  in  the  past  have  been  superior  to  their 
age  and  associated  themselves  with  its  glory  only  in 
so  far  as  they  have  contributed  to  it.    But  in  these 
days  the  movement  of  time  is  too  rapid  for  us  tr 
recognise  such  a  man:  under  modern  conditions  he 
[84] 


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AN  AUTOinOGKAPHY 

must  be  superif)r,  not  so  much  to  his  a^c,  as  to  the 
men  of  his  age,  and  absorb  what  glory  he  can  in  Iiis 
own  personality. 

"The  C(Kle  Napoleon  remains,  but,  beyond  this, 
hardly  one  at  Napoleon's  great  achievements  sur- 
vives as  a  living  embodiment  of  his  genius.  Never 
was  so  vast  a  fabric  so  quickly  created  and  so 
quickly  dissolved.  The  moment  the  individual  was 
caught  and  removed,  the  bewitched  French  world 
returned  to  itself;  and  the  fame  of  the  army  and  the 
irrcstige  of  France  were  as  mere  echoes  of  retreat- 
ing thunder.  Dead  as  are  the  results  of  Bona- 
parte's measures  and  actions,  no  one  would  (pjestion 
the  permanent  vitality  of  his  name.  It  con  jures  up 
an  image  in  the  dullest  brain;  and  among  all  his- 
torical celebrities  he  is  the  one  whom  most  of  us 
would  like  to  have  met. 

"The  Home  Rule  question,  which  has  long  dis- 
torted the  public  judgment  and  looms  large  at  the 
present  political  moment,  admirrbly  illustrates  the 
power  of  personality.  Its  importance  has  been 
exaggerated;  the  grant  of  Home  Rule  will  not 
save  Ireland;  its  refusal  will  not  sh;ime  England. 
Its  swollen  projiortions  are  wholly  due  to  the  pas- 
sionate  personal    feelings    which    Mr.    Gladstone 

[8.5] 


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MARGOT  ASQUITH 

alone  anmng  living  statemcn  inspires.  'He  i,  so 
powerful  that  l,i.,  tl,„„g|„s  are  nearly  ae.s,"  as 
»me  one  has  written  of  hir.;  and  at  an  age  when 
most  men  woul.l  he  wheeled  into  the  ehimney- 
corner  he  is  ,,t  the  hea.l  of  a  preearious  majorify 
and  st,II  retains  en„u«h  foree  to  eompel  its  nndi- 
vided  support. 

"Mr.  Chamberlain's  power  springs  from  the  eon- 
centrafon  of  a  ..ature  wiiich  is  singularly  free  from 
complexity.     The  range  of  his  mind  is  narrow, 
but  up  to  ,ts  horizon  the  whole  is  illuminated  by  the 
same  strong  and  rather  garish  light.    The  absolute- 
ness of  h.s  convictions  is  never  shaded  or  softened 
by  any  play  of  imagination  or  sjinpathetic  insight. 
It  IS  not  in  virtue  of  any  exceptionally  fine  or 
attractive  quality,  either  of  intellect  or  of  char- 
acter, that  Mr.  Chamberlain  l^as  become  a  dominant 
figure.    Strength  of  will,  directness  of  purpose,  an 
aggressive  and  contagious  belief  in  himself:  these- 
which  are  the  notes  of  a  compelling  individuality- 
made  him  what  he  is.    On  the  other  hand,  culture, 
intellectual  versatility,  sound  and  practised  judg- 
ment,  which  was  tried  and  rarely  found  wanting  in 
delicate  and  even  dangerous  situations,  did  not  suf- 
fice  m  the  case  of  Mr.  Matthews  to  redeem  the 
[86] 


hi* 


ii 


li* 


V^.'*^^  ^-^^-T' 


,,« 


'I 

I 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPIIV 

shortcomings  of  a  diffuse  and  ineffective  person- 
ality. 

"In  a  different  way,  Mr.  Goschcn's  remarkable 
endowments  are  neutralised  by  the  same  limitations. 
He  has  infinite  ingenuity,  but  he  can  neither  initiate 
nor  propel;  an  intrepid  debater  in  c<iuneil  and  in 
action,  he  is  prey  to  an  itivineibh'  indecision. 

"If  th  -•  fortimes  of  a  (;o\  ernment  depend  not  so 
much  on  its  measures  as  uj)on  the  character  of  the 
men  who  compose  it,  the  new  Ministry  starts  with 
every  chance  of  success. 

"Lord  Rosebery  is  one  of  our  few  statesmen 
whose  individuality  is  distinctly  recognised  by  the 
public,  both  at  home  and  abroad. 

"Lord  Spencer,  without  a  trace  of  genius,  is  a 
person.  Sir  W.  Ilarcourt,  the  most  brilliant  and 
witty  of  them  all,  is,  perhaps,  not  more  than  a  life- 
like imitation  of  a  strong  man.  Mr.  John  Morley 
has  conviction,  courage  and  tenacity;  but  an  over- 
delicacy  of  nervous  organisation  and  a  certain  lack 
of  animal  spirits  disqualify  him  from  being  a  leader 
of  men. 

"It  is  premature  to  criticise  tne  new  members  of 
the  Cabinet,  of  whom  the  most  conspicuous  is  Mr. 
Asquith.      Beyond    and    above    his    abilities    and 

[87] 


,'i 

u 


i.  ■ 


.^w"-^^ 


mmii^\^m^^ms^fmi^ 


r/  1 


■I 


.''I 


'  i 


ilf 

Lit  -. 


MARGOT  ASQUirir 

eloquence,  there  is  i„  hi,„  „uoh  ,|uiel  f„«  and  . 
eertarn  vem  of  scornful  austerity.  Hi.,  «„„„„« 
oonten,„t  for  the  .superficial  and  his  independence 
ofnnndnnghttakehiuifar. 

"The  future  will  not  disclose  its  .secrets.  h„t  per- 

™al,ty  still  governs  the  world,  and  the  aveuuc  is 
open  to  the  man,  wherever  he  may  be  found,  who 
can  control  ami  will  not  l,c  controllcl  hy  fashions  of 
opm,on  and  the  shifting  movement  of  causes  and 
cries. 

My  article  is  not  at  all  good,  but  I  p„t  it  in  this 
autobiography  merely  as  a  political  prophecy 

To  be  mutative  and  uninfluenceable-although  a 
common  combination-is  a  bad  one.  I  am  not 
tempted  to  be  imitative  except,  I  hope,  in  the  better 
sense  of  the  word,  but  I  regret  to  own  that  I  am  no. 
very  influenceable  either. 

Jowett  (the  .Alaster  of  Balliol  in  1888-89) 
doctor.  Sir  John  Williams  (of  Abervstw^^h)'      . 
son  Anthony  and  old  Lady  Wemyss  (tlie  moth;r   ' 
the  present  Earl)  had  more  influence  over  me  than 
any  other  individuals  in  the  world 

The  late  Countess  of  Wemyss,  who  died  in  1896. 


AN  AI'TOHIOGUAPIIV 

wns  a  ^re.'it  cliaractir  witliout  hv'mfr  a  character- 
part.  She  told  nic  tli.it  she  frijulilened  people,  which 
distressed  her.  As  I  am  not  easily  fri^liteiicd.  I 
was  puz/.led  l»y  this.  .M'ter  thinkitijr  it  over,  I  was 
convinced  that  it  was  hecause  she  had  a  hard  nut 
to  crack  within  lierself:  she  possessed  a  jealous, 
passionate,  yoiithfnl  tit!ii»eratnent.  a  forniidahle 
standard  of  ri^^ht  and  wrotiff,  a  (fist'n^^nished  and 
rather  stern  avcmU,  a  low,  .sh)w  utterance  and  terri- 
fying sincerity.  She  was  the  kind  of  person  I  had 
dreamt  of  meeting  and  never  knew  that  God  had 
made.  She  once  told  me  that  I  was  the  hest  friend 
man,  woman  or  cliild  could  ever  have.  After  this 
wonderful  compliment,  we  formed  a  deep  attach- 
ment, which  lasted  until  her  death.  She  had  a 
unique  power  of  devotion  and  fundamental  htimhle- 
ness.    I  kept  every  letter  she  ever  wrote  to  me. 

When  we  left  Downing  Street  in  ten  days-  -after 
heing  there  for  over  nine  years — and  had  not  a  roof 
to  cover  our  heads,  our  new  friends  came  to  liie 
rescue,  I  must  add  that  many  of  the  old  ones  had 
no  room  for  us  md  some  were  living  in  the  country. 
Lady  Crewe* — young  enough  to  he  my  daughter, 
and  a  woman  of  rare  honesty  of  purpose  and  clear- 


•The  Marchinnoss  of  Crewe. 


k^. 


rl 


[89] 


r  I 


% 

H 

1 1 


fit 


i  ■ 


MARCIOT  ASQUITII 
ness  of  head-t,...K   ,>„r  son   Cyril   in  at   Crewe 
House.    Lady  (Jranar.l*  put  up  „,y  husl.a.id;  Mrs. 
Caven.lisI.-IU.nfi„c.k--Lady    (iranard's   aunt    and 
one  of  i;cMr.s  .>wn-l,efriended  niy  daughter  Eliza- 
Met ,;  Mrs.  George  Keppeltahvays  large-hearted 
and  k.nd-gave  n.e  a  whole  floor  of  her  house  in 
(.rosvenor  Street  to  live  in.  for  as  manv  n.ontl>s 
as  I  liked,  and  Mrs.  MeKennaj  took  in  my  son 
Anthony.    \o  n„e  has  had  sueh  wonderful  friends 
as  I  have  had.  hut  no  one  has  suffered  more  at  dis- 
covenng  the  instahility  of  hmnan  heings  and  how 
little  power  to  love  many  people  p.,.sess. 

Few  n.en  and  women  surrender  their  wills;  and 
It  is  considered  lowering  to  their  dignity  to  own 
that  they  are  in  the  wrong.  I  never  get  over  my 
amazement  at  this  kind  of  self-value,  it  passes  all 
my  comprehension.  It  is  vanity  and  this  funda- 
mental  lack  of  humbleness  that  is  the  bed-rock  of 
nearly  every  quarrel. 

It  was  through  my  beloved  Lady  Wemvss  that  I 
first  met  the  ISfaster  of  Balliol.  One  evening  in 
1888,  after  the  men  had  come  in  from  shooting,  we 

•The  Counloss  of  Crnnard. 
tThe  Hon.  Mrs.  Kepjjel 

Hor'ne":  *''''"'""'  *'^  '''"«^""-  «'  '"''r  Myll.  .„d  „ieo.  of  L.dy 
[90] 


,".*C  *"9'  ■ 


AN  AUTOBKKJRAPHV 


were  having  tea  in  tlic  Iiir^e  inr  hit'  hnll  at  (tos- 
ford.*  I  generally  wore  .in  acconlion  skirt  at  tea, 
as  Lord  Weiiiyss  liked  nic  to  dance  to  lijoi.  Some 
one  was  playing  the  piano  and  I  was  iinj)ro\  ising 
in  .  nd  ont  of  the  chairs,  when,  in  the  act  of  making 
a  final  curtsey,  I  caught  my  f(M»t  in  my  skirt  atid 
fell  at  the  feet  of  an  old  clergyman  seated  in  the 
window.  As  I  got  up,  a  loud  "Damn!"  resoimded 
through  the  room.  Recovering  my  presence  of 
mind,  I  said,  looking  up: 

"You  are  a  clerg>7nan  and  I  am  afraid  I  have 
shocked  you!" 

"Not  at  all, '  he  replied.  "I  hope  you  will  go  on; 
I  like  your  dancing  extremely." 

I  provoked  much  amusement  by  asking  the 
family  afterwards  if  the  parson  whose  presence  I 
had  failed  to  notice  was  their  minister  at  Aberlady. 
I  then  learnt  that  he  was  the  famous  Dr.  Henjamin 
Jowett,  :Master  of  Balliol. 

Before  telling  how  my  friendship  with  t'»e  Master 
developed,  1  shall  go  back  to  ihe  events  in  Oxford 
w' ' 'h  gave  him  his  insight  into  hun)'n  beings  and 
t^  iSed  him  much  quiet  suffering. 

•Gosford  is  the  P'nrI  of  Wemyss'  country  place  and  is  situated  be- 
tween Edinhnrph  and  North  Borwick. 

[91] 


.  I 


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hi 


¥\ 


'i  --i 


It  { 


■Sl~> 


.H  ' 


Af ARGOT  ASQCriTH 

In  1852  the  d.atlw.f  I)r.  J,,u,,,  , ,,,,,,, J  j,,^^ 
Mustershi,.  at  Hallioi  t.,  lurnnu-  vanu.t.    J.nvcltN 
fan.c  as  a  tutor  was  ^^rcat.  f,„t  sv.'h  it  thnv  had 
•spread  fl  snsp.Vion  „f  'rati.malisn.."    IVrsons  «his- 
peml  that  thcgpat  tut,,.-  uas  laintnl  with  C.vnunn 
views.     This  remtcl  uruh.ly  np.„.  his  <.„II,...,«.„(s; 
and.  when  the  eleetio,,  ca.ne.  he  was  reje.-fal  l.y  a 
single  v„te.    His  .Iisup,,„i„t„u>nt  was  ,1ct,,.  I,„l"  he- 
threw  himself  nmre  than  ever  int.,  his  work      He 
told  n.e  that  a  favourite  passage  of  his  i„  >rareus 
Aurehus-"«e  always  doi,.^,  so.uething  servi.-eahle 
to  .nankiud  and  let  this  eonstar.t  geuerosity  he  your 
only  pleasure,  not  forgetting  i  d„e  regard  to  (Jod" 
-nad  been  of  great  help  to  „,„,  at  that  time 

The  leetures  whieh  his  pupils  eared  most  about 
were  those  on  Plato  and  St.  Paul;  b<,th  as  tutor 
and  exanuner  he  may  be  said  to  have  stimulated  the 
study  of  Plato  in  Oxford:  he  made  it  a  rival  to  that 
of  Aristotle. 

"Aristotle  is  dead."  he  would  say.  "but  Plato  is 
alive. 

Hitherto  he  had  published  liiU^an  anonvn.ons 
essay  on  Paseal  and  a  few  literarv  artiele^-Fx.t 
under  the  stin.ulus  of  disappointment  he  finished 
his  share  of  the  edition  of  St.  Patd\s  Epistles,  which 


(III 


m 


k 


n 


AX  AiroiilOCHAI'IlV 

lin<l  !it>(-ii  iitidirtakcii  in  conjiiiiction  with  Aitlmr 
Stimliy.  Hotli  pnxliunl  llkir  ImhiI.n  in  IH.V):  Iml 
whili'  Stjiiiliy's  ('oniithlniis  v\^^k^■^\  lati>j:iii(|  iii- 
tt'i'i'st.  Jiiwilf's  (I'lhiliatin,  Tlnx^tilitiiutus  .ind 
liomtiim  provoked  a  tlanionr  anmn^  ni<.  t'lifmls  and 
t'nt'rnics.  Ahont  t  -tt  fiiiic  lie  was  appointed  to  tin- 
Oxford  (Jrrt'k  Chair,  wl.irii  pUasid  hitn  much;  h';t 
his  delight  was  ratht-r  jhislu'd  liy  a  hoslili  article  in 
thf  Qiiarlcrf  lici  Inc  aliiisinir  him  and  his  re''  us 
writin;rs.  The  X'ice-C'hancrllor.  Dr.  C'ott'  k  i- 
qnircd  from  liim  a  frosli  si^rialinc  of  the  Artirh-s 
u  R>  Church  of  Kn^dand.  At  Mic  iiiU-rv  icw,  wluii 
ad(hx'sse(l  l)y  two  men  one  pompously  explaining 
that  it  was  a  necessary  act  -f  he  was  to  itlain  his 
cloth  and  the  )tl  .-r  apolojrising  for  infhetin^  a 
hnmihntion  upon  him  — he  merely  said: 

"(iive  nie  the  pen." 

His  essay  on  The  Intirjfrelntion  of  Scrijiturc. 
which  came  out  in  18(;()  if  tlie  famous  volume, 
KnsajiH  and  liiTii'tcs,  ineri  d  ihc  cry  of  heter- 
odoxy ajjfainst  him:  and  i.n  CaTions  of  Christ 
Church,  incjudin<r  Dr.  I'nsey.  pcisistcd  in  withhold- 
ing from  him  an  extra  sahii y.  without  which  the 
endowment  of  the  CJreek  (hair  was  worth  £40. 
This  scandal  was  not  removed  till  1S(»4,  aiter  he 

[1)3] 


Ill 


pi  (•■ 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

had  been  exchHled  fn.rn  the  university  pulpit.  He 
c<.nt,nued  working,  l.anl  at  his  translation  of  the 
Hho le  or  Plato;  he  had  already  published  notes  on 
the  licpuhlic  and  analyses  „f  the  dialo^e.  This 
ook  up  all  his  time  till  1878.  when  he  became  Mas- 
ter  of  Balhol. 

The  worst  of  the  E.sa>,s  and  Reviews  contro- 
versy was  that  it  did  an  injustice  to  Jowett's  repu- 
tation For  years  people  thought  that  he  was  a 
great  heresiareh  presiding  over  a  college  of  infidels 
and  heretics.  His  impeached  article  on  The 
Interpretation  of  Scripture  might  to-day  be  pub- 
.shed  by  any  clerg,-n.an.    His  erime  lay  in  saying 

that  the  Bd,le  should  be  criticised  like  other  books 
In  his  introduction  to  the  RepubUc  of  Plato  he 

expresses  the  same  thought: 

tant.^r'fl'  '"  *^^-'^'"  "*'  ^'^^*«  ^tta^hed  no  impor- 

t^at  the  natives  of  ^Z:;^!^'!^^ 
AndT  ^^'>^''i,*'^7  recognised  them  to  be  mmmval 

moral  ;V"  ""  ''>"""^=  *'^^  consideration  of    heir 
morality  coines  first,  afterwards  the  truth  of  tt' 

evr;r  n  tu'r.rof ' ''''  r  r-^^^^*"- "'  tl; 

them      B  ^h    n'  T'*''";'*"''"''  ^"'^'■^'^  ^'^  toJ'J  of 
"lun.     liut  m  modern  times,  and  in  Protestint 

countries  perhaps  more  than  Catholic,  we  have  bern 

[94] 


t 


3 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

too  much  inclined  to  identify  the  historical  with 
the  moral;  and  some  have  refused  to  believe  in  re- 
ligion at  all,  unless  a  su])erhuman  accuracy  was  dis- 
cerned in  every  part  (jf  the  reconl.  The  facts  of  an 
ancient  or  religious  history  are  amongst  the  most 
important  of  all  facts,  but  they  are  frequently  un- 
certain, and  we  only  learn  the  tnie  lesson  which  is 
to  be  gathered  from  them  when  we  place  ourselves 
above  them. 

Some  one  writes  in  the  Literary  Supplement  of 
the  Times  to-day,  11th  December,  1910: 

"An  almost  animal  indifference  to  mental  refine- 
ment characterises  our  great  public." 

This  is  quite  true,  and  presuniably  was  true  in 
Jowett's  day,  not  only  of  the  great  public  but  of  the 
Kstablished  Church. 

Catherine  Marsh,  the  author  of  The  Life  of 
Iledley  Vicars,  wrote  to  Jowett  assuring  him  of 
her  complete  belief  in  the  sincerity  of  his  religious 
views  and  expressing  indignation  that  he  shoidd 
have  had  to  sign  tlie  thirty-nine  Ai"ticles  again.  I 
give  his  reply.  The  postscript  is  characteristic  of 
his  kindliness,  gentle  temper  and  practical  wisdom. 

March  Wth,  1864. 
Dear  JVrAUAM. 

Accept  my  best  thanks  for  your  kind  letter,  and 
for  the  books  you  have  been  so  good  as  to  send  me. 

[95] 


M  1 


mi. 


w 


:.  i; 


1 


1  rr 


r 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 
service  of  G„d,  and  of  the  youth.  o/o4h  L°u"" 

gether  as  yo„  ,Jo  on  religions  s„h  j  J^^  '  KhL  th^ 
not,  tnerefore.  enter  fm-tli*...  .'r,*^  iu 

With  sincere  respect  for  your  labours. 
Believe  me,  dear  Madam, 

Most  truly  yours, 

B.  JoWETT. 

ti,  ^'?'~"^u^^''^  ^^^^  >'""r  better  again!  I  think 
hat  I  ought  to  tell  you  that,  unlessVu  had  S 
a  complete  stranger,  you  would  not  have  had  so 
iXr'KT  "'  "%•'  '''' ''''  kindness  of  you? 
saj  ot  me,  I  should  soon  become  a  "very  comnletP 
rascal."  Any  letter  like  yours,  which  isTrftten 
with  such  earnestness,  and  in  a  time  of  iHneTs  "s  « 

'anietn^ag^^^^^^     '  ^"  ""*  ^"^^'^^  *«  "-  the 
[96] 


I  ■ 


■'f 


:i 


ill 


lit: 


EAHi,  or  pi:mhhiikk:  mi::iibfh  hi  tiii:  soils 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

When  Jowett  became  Master,  his  pupils  and 
friends  gathered  round  him  and  overcame  the 
Church  chatter.  He  was  the  hardest-working  tutor, 
Vice-Chancellor  and  Master  that  Oxford  ever  had. 
Balhol,  under  his  regime,  grew  in  numbers  and  i)ro- 
duced  more  scholars,  more  thinkers  and  more  polit- 
ical men  of  note  than  any  other  college  in  the 
university.  He  had  authority  and  a  unitiue 
prestige.  It  was  said  of  Dr.  Whewell  of  Trinity 
that  "knowledge  was  his  forte  and  omniscience  his 
foible";  the  same  might  have  been  said  of  the 
Master  and  was  expressed  in  a  college  epigram, 
written  by  an  undergraduate.  After  Jowett's 
death  I  cut  the  following  from  an  Oxford  maga- 
zine: 

The  author  of  a  famous  and  often  misquoted 
verse  upon  Professor  Jowett  has  v/ritten  me  a  note 
upon  his  lines  which  may  be  appropriately  inserted 
here.  "Several  versions,"  he  writes,  "have  appeared 
lately,  and  my  vanity  does  not  consider  them  im- 
provements.   The  lines  were  written: 

'First  come  I,  my  name  is  Jowett, 
There's  no  knowledge  but  I  know  it. 
I  am  Master  of  this  College, 
What  I  don't  know — is  not  knowledge.' 

"The  'First  come  I'  referred  to  ils  being  a  masque 
of  the  College  in  which  fellows,  scholars,  et"    «p- 

[9^ 


li 


( 

f 

¥ 


Ir 


i'i  i 


m 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

peared  in  order.    The  short,  disconnected  sentences 
were  intentional,  as  l)ein^  characteristic.     Such  a 
Jine  as   AJl  that  can  l)e  known  I  know  if  (which 
some  newspai)ers  su[)stituted  for  line  2)    woiild 
express  a  rather  vul^rar,  Whewellian  foible  of  om- 
niscience which  was  (,i,ite  foreign  to  the  MasttT's 
nature;  the  line  as  originally  written  was  intended 
to  express  the  rather  .ad,  brooding  inanner  the 
blaster  had  of  ^r,ving  liis  oracles,  as  though  he  were 
a  spectator  of  all  time  and  existence,  anr'  had  pene- 
trated into  the  mystery  of  things.    Of  course,  the 
last  Jme  expressed,  with  necessary  exaggeration, 
what  as  a  fact,  was  his  attitude  to  certain  subjects 
m  which  he  refused  to  be  interested,  such  as  m.)dern 
(xerman   metaphysics,   philology,   and   Greek   in- 
scriptions. 

When  I  met  the  Master  in  1887,  I  was  young 
and  he  was  old;  but,  whether  from  insolence  or  in- 
sight, I  never  felt  this  difference.    I  do  not  think 
I  was  a  good  judge  of  age,  as  I  have  always  liked 
older  people  than  myself;  and  I  imagine  it  was 
because  of  this  unconsciousness  that  we  became  such 
wonderful  friends.    .Towett  was  younger  than  half 
the  young  people  I  know  now  and  we  understood 
each  other  perfectly.     If  I  am  hasty  in  making 
friends  and  skip  the  preface,  I  always  read   it 
afterwards. 

A  good  deal  of  controversy  has  arisen  over  the 
[98] 


'« 

1 

M 

. 

■ 

«  m 

. 

1l         IH-'      ^■..      "WWlMMtaM 

,                 .  ,  _      . 

'     '  "  " 

-  'X— _, 

' 

'i- ".'"': 

/TTT  v: 

AN  AUTOBIOGHAPIIY 


'i 


Master's  cluim  to  greatness  by  SDiiie  of  the  younj^er 
generation.  It  is  not  denied  that  Jowett  was  n  man 
of  influenee.  Men  as  (lifl'erent  as  Huxley,  Synionds, 
Lord  Lansdowne,  Lord  liowen,  Lord  Mihier,  Sir 
Robert  Morier  and  otiiers  have  told  me  in  reverent 
and  afFeetionate  terms  how  much  they  owed  to  him 
and  tj)  his  influence.  It  is  not  denied  that  he  was  a 
kind  man ;  infinitely  generous,  considerate  and  good 
about  money.  It  may  he  denied  that  he  was  a  fine 
scholar  of  the  first  rank,  such  as  Munro  or  Jebb, 
although  no  one  denies  his  contributions  to  scholar- 
ship; but  the  real  question  remains:  was  he  a  great 
man?  There  are  big  men,  men  of  intellect,  intel- 
lectual men,  men  of  talent  and  men  of  action;  but 
the  great  man  is  difficult  to  find,  and  it  needs — 
apart  from  discermnent — a  certain  greatness  to 
find  him.  The  Almighty  is  a  wonderfid  handi- 
capper:  He  will  not  give  us  everj-thing.  I  have 
never  met  a  woman  of  supreme  beauty  with  moro 
than  a  mediocre  intellect,  by  which  I  do  not  mean 
intelligence.  There  may  be  some,  but  I  am  only 
writing  my  own  life,  and  I  have  not  it  tV  ::m.  A 
person  of  magnetism,  temperament  .  ad  quick  in- 
telligence may  have  neither  intellect  nor  character. 
I  have  known  one  man  whose  genius  lay  in  his  rapid 

[99] 


S  ! 


*.<i  ( 


I 


i 


mi 


li 


,!  ir 


M' 


MAUGOT  ASQUITH 

and   sensitive   untlerstandinp.    real   wit,    amazing 
charm  and  apparent  candour,  ftut  whose  meanness, 
ingratitude  and  instuhihty  injured  everj-thing  he 
touched.    You  can  only  discover  ingratitude  or  in- 
stahility  after  years  of  experience,  and  few  of  us,  I 
am  glad  to  think,  ever  suspect  meanness  in  our 
feljow-cttatures;  the  discovery  is  as  painful  when 
you  find  it  as  the  discovery  of  a  worm  in  the  heart 
of  a  rose.    A  man  may  have  a  fine  character  and  be 
taciturn,  stubborn  and  stupid.     Another  may  be 
brilliant,  sunny  and  generous,  but  self-indulgent, 
heartless  and  a  liar.     There  is  no  contradiction  I 
have  not  met  with  in  men  and  women:  the  rarest 
combination  is  to  find  fundamental  humbleness, 
freedom  from  self,  intrepid  courage  and  the  power 
to  love;  when  you  come  upon  these,  you  may  be 
quite  sure  that  you  are  in  the  presence  of  greatness. 
Human  beings  are  made  up  of  a  good  many 
pieces.     Nature,  character,  intellect  and  tempera- 
ment: roughly  speaking,  these  headings  cover  every 
one.    The  men  and  women  whom  I  have  loved  best 
have  been  those  whose  natures  were  rich  and  sweet; 
but,  alas,  with  a  few  exceptions,  all  of  them  have 
had  ginicrack  characters;  and  the  qualities,  which  I 
[100] 


AN  AUTOBIOCrRAPIlY 

have  loved  in  them  have  been  ultimately  siilnner^ed 
hy  self-indiil^cnt'c. 

The  present  i\rchl)ishnp  of  Cantcri)iiry  is  one  of 
thes  exceptions:  he  has  a  sweet  and  rich  nature,  a 
fine  temper  and  is  (pjite  unspoilahle.  I  have  only 
one  criticism  to  make  of  Randall  Davidson:  he  has 
too  much  nuKlcration  for  his  intellect;  hut  I  daresay 
he  would  not  have  steered  the  Church  through  so 
many  shallows  if  he  had  not  had  this  attribute.  I 
have  known  him  since  I  was  ten  (he  christened, 
confirmed,  married  and  buried  us  all) ;  and  his  faith 
in  such  qualities  of  head  and  heart  as  I  possess  has 
never  wavered.  He  reminds  me  of  Jowett  in  the 
soundness  of  his  nature  and  his  complete  absence 
of  vanity,  although  no  two  men  were  ever  less  alike. 
The  first  element  of  greatness  is  fundamental 
humbleness  (this  shoidd  not  be  confi.'sed  with  ser- 
vility) ;  the  second  is  freedom  from  self;  the  third  is 
intrepid  courage,  which,  taken  in  its  widest  inter- 
pretation, generally  goes  with  truth;  and  the 
fourth,  the  power  to  love,  although  I  have  put  it 
last,  is  the  rarest.  If  these  go  to  the  makings  of  a 
great  man,  Jowett  possessed  them  all.  He  might 
have  mocked  at  the  confined  comprehension  of  Ox- 
ford and  exposed  the  arrogance,  vanity  and  conven- 

[101] 


i«|. 


'■^i 


i 


'i 


•f 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

tionality  of  the  Church;  intellectual  scorn  and  even 
bitterness  might  have  come  to  him;  but,  with  infinite 
patience  and  imperturbable  serenity,  he  preserved 
his  faith  in  his  fellow-creatures. 

"There  was  in  hini  a  simple  trust  in  the  word  of 
other  men  that  won  for  him  a  devotion  and  service 
which  discipline  could  never  have  evoked.'* 

Whether  his  criticisms  of  the  Bible  fluttered  the 
faith  of  the  flappers  in  Oxford,  or  whether  his  long 
silences  made  the  undergraduates  more  stupid  than 
they  would  otherwise  have  been,  I  care  little:  I  only 
know  that  he  was  what  I  call  great  and  that  he  had 
an  ennobling  influence  over  my  life.  He  was  appre- 
hensive of  my  social  reputation;  and  in  our  corre- 
spondence, which  started  directly  we  parted  at 
Gosford,  he  constantly  gave  me  wise  advice.     He 
was  extremely  simple-minded  and  had  a  pathetic 
belief  in  the  fine  manners,  high  tone,  wide  education 
and  lofty  example  of  the  British  aristocracy.     It 
shocked  him  that  I  did  not  share  it;  I  felt  his  warn- 
ings much  as  a  duck  swimming  might  feel  the 
duckings  of  a  hen  on  the  bank ;  nevertheless,  I  loved 
his  exhortations.    In  one  of  his  letters  he  begs  me 

•I   read   these   words    in   an   obituary    notice   the   other   day   and 
thought  how  much  I  should  like  to  have  had  them  written  of  me. 

[102] 


AN  AUTOIUOGRAPIIY 

to|?ivc  up  the  idea  of  shooting  bears  with  the  Prince 
of  Wales  in  Russia.  It  was  the  first  I  had  heard 
of  it  I  In  anutlier  of  his  letters  to  nic  be  ended 
thus : 

But  I  must  not  hore  you  with  good  advice. 
Chdd,  why  don't  you  make  a  better  use  of  your 
noble  gifts f  And  yet  you  do  not  d-)  anything 
wrong — only  what  other  people  do,  but  with  more 
success.  And  you  are  very  faithful  to  your  friends. 
And  so,  God  bless  you. 

He  was  mucn  shocked  by  hearing  that  I  smoked. 
This  is  what  he  says: 

What  are  you  doing — breaking  a  young  man's 
heart;  not  the  first  time  nor  the  second,  nor  the  third 
— I  be'ieve?  Poor  fellows!  they  have  i)aid  you  tlie 
highest  compliment  that  a  gentleman  can  pay  a 
lady,  and  are  deserving  of  all  love.  Shall  I  give 
you  a  small  piece  of  counsel?  It  is  better  for  you 
and  a  duty  to  them  that  their  disappointed  passions 
should  never  be  known  to  a  single  person,  for  as 
you  are  well  aware,  one  confidante  means  every 
body,  and  the  good-natured  world,  who  are  of 
course  very  jealous  of  you,  will  call  you  cruel  and 
a  breaker  of  hearts,  etc.  I  do  nut  consider  this 
advice,  but  merely  a  desire  to  make  you  see  things 
as  others  see  them  or  nearly.  The  Symonds  girls 
at  Davos  told  me  that  you  smoked!!!  at  which  I 
am  shocked,  because  it  is  not  the  maimer  of  ladies 
in  England.     I  always  imagine  you  with  a  long 

[103] 


'<•!, 


M> 


M 


/f 


W- 


f" 


1' 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

hookah  nufTinjy.  punin^,  since  I  heard  this;  cive  it 
up.  my  .lear  MarKaret  nt  uiU  ^et  y„u  n  f.a.l  nanu-. 
1  k'Hse  (h,  nhsTrve  that  1  at,,  ahv.iys  se,i,„.N  when 
I  try  to  n,ake  fun.  1  h„pe  you  a,e  enjovinu  hfe 
and  Inends  and  the  weather:  and  I.eheve  ine 

Ever  yours  truly. 

U.    JoWETT. 

He  asked  nic  once  if  I  ever  tohl  any  one  that  he 
wrote  to  me,  to  which  I  answered: 

"I  shouM  rather  think  sol  I  telj  every  railway 
porter  I" 

This  distressed  him.  I  told  him  that  he  was  evi- 
dently  ashamed  of  my  hive  for  him,  but  that  I  was 
proud  of  it. 

JowETT  (after  a  lorn,  mknce) :  "Would  you  like 
to  hw*'c  your  life  written,  Margaret?" 

Mahoot:  "Not  much,  unless  it  told  the  whole 
truth  about  me  and  every  one  and  was  indiscreet. 
If  I  could  have  a  biographer  like  Froude  or  Lord 
Hervey,  it  would  be  divine,  as  no  one  would  be 
bored  by  reading  it.  Who  will  you  choose  to  write 
your  life,  Mj.ster?" 

Jom'ett:  "No  one  will  be  in  a  position  to  write 
my  life,  Margaret."    (For  some  time  he  called  me 
Margaret;  he  thought  it  sounded  less  familiar  than 
Margot.) 
[104] 


*i  j^-ML^^'lIF 


I 


AX  ACJTOIUOC.RAPIIY 

MaR(Jot:  "What  nouscnsci  IIow  tan  yoii  pos- 
sibly prevent  it^  If  yon  are  not  very  good  to  me, 
I  may  even  write  it  myself!" 

Jowi  'T  (HmiUtuj):  "If  I  eoiild  have  been  sure 
of  that,  T  need  not  ha\e  burnt  j.  ny  eorrespond- 
cnee!  But  you  are  an  idle  young  lady  and  would 
certainly  never  have  concentrated  on  so  dull  a 
subject." 

Maroot  {itulh/nnntfi/) :  "Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  have  burnt  all  (Jcorge  Eliot's  letters.  Matthew 
Arnold's,  Swinburne's,  Temple's  and  Tenny- 
son's?" 

Jowett:  "I  have  kept  one  or  two  of  George 
Eliot's  and  Florence  Nightingale's;  but  great  men 
do  not  write  good  letters.'* 

Maboot:  "Do  you  kn-w  Floience  Nightingale? 
I  wish  I  did." 

Jowett  {cvidcntli,  gur prised  that  I  had  never 
heard  the  gossip  conncctinc/  his  name  rcith  Florence 
Nightingale) :  "Why  do  you  want  to  know  her?" 

Margot:  "Because  she  was  in  love  with  my 
friend  George  Pembroke's*  father." 

Jowett  {guardedly) :  "Oh,  indeed!    I  will  take 

•George,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  uncle  of  the  present  Earl. 

[105] 


ii 


il 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

you  to  see  her  and  then  you  can  ask  her  about  all 
this." 

]Mahgot:  "I  should  love  that!  But  perhaps  she 
would  not  care  for  nie." 

Jowett:  "I  do  not  think  she  will  care  for  you, 
but  would  you  mind  thatf ' 

Margot:  "Oh,  not  at  all!  I  am  quite  unfem- 
nine  in  those  ways.  When  people  leave  the  room, 
I  don't  say  to  myself,  "I  wonder  if  they  like  me," 
but,  "I  wonder  if  I  like  them." 

This  made  an  impression  on  the  JMaster,  or  I 
should  not  have  remembered  it.  Some  weeks  after 
this  he  took  me  to  see  Florence  Nightingale  in  her 
house  in  South  Street.  Groups  of  hospital  nurses 
were  waiting  outside  in  the  liall  to  see  her.  When 
we  went  in  I  noted  her  fine,  handsome,  well-bred 
face.  She  was  lying  on  a  sofa,  with  a  white  shawl 
round  her  shoulders  and,  after  shaking  hands  with 
her,  the  Master  and  I  sat  down.  She  pointed  to 
the  beautiful  Riclimond  print  of  Sidney  Herbert, 
hanging  above  her  mantelpiece,  and  said  to  me: 

"I  am  interested  to  meet  you,  as  I  hear  George 
Pembroke,  the  son  of  my  old  and  dear  friend,  is 
devoted  to  you.    Will  you  tell  me  what  he  is  like?" 
[106] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  described  Lord  Pembroke,  while  Jowett  sat  in 
stony  silence  till  we  left  the  house. 

One  day,  a  few  months  after  this  visit,  I  was 
driving  in  the  vicinity  of  Oxford  with  the  Master 
and  I  said  to  him: 

"You  never  speak  of  your  relations  to  me  and 
you  never  tell  me  whether  you  were  in  love  when 
you  were  young;  1  have  told  you  so  much  about 
myself!" 

Joavett:  "Have  you  ever  heard  that  I  was  in 
love  with  any  one?" 

I  did  not  like  to  tell  him  that,  since  our  visit  to 
Florence  Nightingale,  1  had  heard  that  he  had 
wanted  to  marry  her,  so  I  said : 

"Yes,  I  have  been  told  you  were  in  love  once." 

JowETi':  "Only  once?" 

Margot:  "Yes." 

Complete  silence  fell  upon  us  after  this:  I  broke 
it  at  last  by  saying: 

"What  was  your  lady-love  like,  dear  Master?" 

Jowett:  "Violent     .     .     .     very  violent." 

After  this  disconcerting  description,  we  drove 
back  to  Balliol. 

Mrs.  Humphry  Ward's  novel  Robert  Elsmere 
had  just  been  published  and  was  dedicated  to  my 

[107} 


m 


m 


. 


H 


»rAR(;OT  ASQUITH 
«is,er  Laura  a^i  Thomas  Hi,,  Green,  Jowetfs  rivn, 

Dkau  Miss  Tkxxaxt,  "'^'^'-  ^^'  ^^««- 

I  have  just  finishal  examininrr  for  tlio  T^..ir  i 

;nlo  the  sea.    Al^HfetSfl  ,'',?'  'T'^  T''' 
Arehbishop  T.i,.  lL„  g  anle^  A    iV''';T  ''^-,' 

Mr.   I,bert,  &c.    &e    Z      Ti      ■      .''".Howen, 

founded  a,.;,„t  sixty  54.4V        "■""""""    ""' 

now  i7Ui;4r^,,:JTret!:%''™;:'^'  ™" 
eXes  hX»"';ri  r "?-  "■'■° 

no  one  can  comfort  anntl,Pr      ^r  "^"-    -'^"* 

»)eautiful  character  I  "o-   S  ^^'"^  ""'^"^"'"-^  "<"  « 
of  one  who  nis  boun/t''°^       •  ''•'"'"  '''P^^''^"^ 

•Mrs.  OolnT/'*  ^""'  ''''''*  "^^  f-"^  two 
[108] 


AN  AUTOlilOGUAPIIY 

short  conversations  wliidi  I  had  witli  her,  and  from 
the  manner  in  which  she  was  spoken  of  at  Davos. 

1  send  you  the  h(M)k*  wliich  1  spoke  of,  thou^rh  1 
hardly  know  whether  it  is  an  apjjropriate  present; 
at  any  rate  I  do  n';t  expect  you  to  read  it.  It  lias 
taken  me  the  last  year  to  revise  and,  in  j)arts,  re- 
write it.  The  great  interest  of  it  is  tliat  it  belon^rs 
to  a  different  age  of  the  human  mind,  in  which 
there  is  so  much  like  and  als(j  unlike  ourselves. 
IMany  of  our  common])laces  and  common  words  are 
being  thought  o.it  for  the  first  time  by  Plato.  Add 
to  this  that  in  rhe  original  this  b(K)k  is  the  most  per- 
fect work  of  art  in  the  world.  I  wonder  whether  it 
will  have  any  meaning  or  interest  for  you. 

You  asked  me  once  whether  1  desired  to  make  a 
Sister  of  Charity  of  you.  Certainly  not  (although 
there  are  worse  occupations) ;  nor  do  I  desire  to 
niake  anything.  Rut  your  talking  about  plans  of 
life  does  lead  me  to  think  of  what  would  be  best 
and  happiest  for  you.  I  do  not  object  to  the  hunt- 
ing and  going  to  Florence  and  Rome,  but  should 
there  not  be  some  higher  end  to  which  these  are  the 
steps?  I  think  that  you  might  hap[)ily  fill  up  a 
great  portion  of  your  life  with  literature  ( I  am  con- 
vinced that  you  have  cors  Arable  talent  and  might 
become  eminent)  and  a  small  portion  with  worko  of 
benevolence,  just  to  keep  us  in  love  and  charity 
with  our  poor  neighbours;  and  the  rest  I  do  not 
grudge  to  society  and  hunting.  To  you  think  that 
I  am  a  hard  taskmaster?  Xot  very,  I  think.  More 
especially  as  you  will  not  be  led  away  by  my  good 
advice.    You  see  that  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  you 

*PIato's  Republic. 

[109] 


MAHGOT  ASQUITH 

ami  torty-hv  e.    Do  prepare  yourself  for  that  awful 

I  went  to  see  Mrs.  II.  Ward  the  other  day  she 
insists  on  dom^r  battle  with  the  reviewer  Tn  the 
Qmrterhj,  and  is  thinkin^r  of  another  novel  of 
whielj  the  subjeet  will  he  thc^ree-thinkin.  of  hies 
workmg-jnen  m  Paris  and  elsewhere.  Pa  pL  say 
hat  m  7^o/..r^  Ehrnere  Rose  is  intended  ?or  you 

M^V:it/T  ^''''  "^r^^  *he  Squire'^for' 
iu,uk  1  attison,  the  Provost  for  nie  etc    nnH  AT- 

Grey  for  Professor  Green.    All  th;  port  ai^s  are 
about  equally  unlike  the  originals.         ^ 

Good-bye,  you  have  been  sitting  with  me  for 
nearly  an  hour,  and  now,  like  Lac^Tnia  or  f^otesi- 
laus,  you  disappear.  I  have  been  the  better  for 
your  eonjpany.  One  serious  word;  May  God  bless 
you  and  help  you  in  this  and  every  othef  ^eat  hurt 

Ever  yours, 

B.  JoWETT. 

I  will  publish  all  his  letters  to  me  together  as 
however  delightful  letters  may  be,  I  find  they  bore' 
me  when  they  are  scattered  all  through  an  auto- 
biography. 

MvdearMabgaret.  ^^rch  nth,  1889. 

a.A'r''  ''''^;  ^"^^^^^hips  grow  dull  if  two  persons 
do  not  eare  to  write  to  one  another.     I  was  hp 
ginning  to  think  that  you  resented  my  cemorious 
criticisms  on  your  youthful  life  and  happines 
[110]  ^ 


i 


VN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


i-\r 


Can  youth  be  serious  without  ceasing  to  he  youth  ? 
1  think  it  may.  The  desire  to  promote  the  happi- 
ness of  others  rather  than  your  own  may  he  always 
"breaking  in."  As  my  poor  sister  (of  whom  1  will 
talk  to  you  some  day)  would  say:  "When  others 
are  happy,  then  1  am  happy."  She  used  to  com- 
mend the  religion  of  Sydney  Smith — "Never  to  let 
a  day  j)ass  without  doing  a  kindness  to  some  body" 
—and  I  think  that  you  understand  something  about 
this;  or  you  would  not  be  so  popular  and  beloved. 

You  ask  me  what  persons  I  have  seen  lately:  1 
doubt  whether  they  would  interest  you.  Mr.  Well- 
don,  the  Headmaster  of  Harrow,  a  very  honest  and 
able  man  with  a  long  hfe  before  him,  and  if  he 
is  not  too  honest  and  open,  not  unlikely  to  be  an 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  Mr.  J.  M,  Wilson, 
Headmaster  of  Clifton  College — a  very  kind, 
genial  and  able  man — there  is  a  great  deal  of  ! " 
and  in  him — not  a  man  of  good  judgment,  but  ve^y 
devoted — a  firjrt-rate  man  in  his  way.  Then  I  have 
seen  a  good  deal  of  Lord  Uosebery — very  able, 
shy,  sensitive,  ambitious,  the  last  two  qualities 
rather  at  war  with  each  other — very  likely  a  future 
Prime  Minister.  J  like  Lady  Uosebery  too — very 
sensible  and  high-principled,  not  at  all  inclined  to 
give  up  her  Judaism  to  please  the  rest  of  the  world. 
They  are  rather  overloaded  with  wealth  and  fine 
houses:  they  are  both  very  kind.  I  also  like  Lady 
Leconfitld.*  whom  I  saw  at  Mentone.  Then  I  paid 
a  visit  to  Tennyson,  who  has  had  a  lingering  illness 
of  six  months,  perhaps  fatal,  as  he  is  eighty  years 

*I.ady  Leconfipld  was  a  sister  of  Lord  Roselien's  and  one  of  mv 
dearest  friends. 

[Ill] 


MARGOT  ASQUITII 


state  of  mind     Tl  ,,„„!  j,    ■     ""'•  "'.''}'"'  I"*  '"mier 
to  me  ,„  be.;.n' illllS      k^r;;-^;-.  >>e-™ed 

then,  as  ^Tood'as  h  \:;!^^;^^^^^^^    Was  tl'*~"""^'  "' 
octogenarian  j.oet  I.eforeT  ^   "'  *'^'-'''*^  "^'''^  "" 

oneeT„yttH:?rr/.n^^'''^^^^^^^^ 

Is  it  a  realrtv  or  I'^'^h  "  i  'honL^  ^T""  ""'''•• 
see  it  if  vou  like  to  smH„,  i  .  "  ""'''■•ested  to 
ins  of  youis  "^  *•""  "'•  ""y  <">'«'•  writ- 

due  to  its  saving  wLTevedjjv     TT  ''  '""">' 
astonished  at  her  1  no  Jil? ''     ''  ".  thinking.    I  am 

theologv-she  is  a  re«r«.f  "  ^''"'  ''''^""*  ^'*^™«n 
of  the  rLtsort  1 1  !'';f'^r.«"^J  ^''•kes  up  things 
ever  sal^'lhTl'  a  ,  ""•*  ^'"''^''^  *'>«*  -^Jrs.  Ward 
thing  fre  n^enJeVal  "r"'  Clu-Lstianity."  The^ 

-eath^I^V----^^^^ 
Cxood-bye, 

Ever  yours  truly, 

dis/p;:S.^-'  ""*  ^-^^^^  --  -t  at  nil  Clever  and  have  long  since 
[112] 


lOlll)  MW,yr„S,  BFTTER   KXOWV   AS  ST.  .FnllN   bbolhick: 

I  I'M  Ml  H  >IIH( :TAR\    ok  statu  niH   H  AR 


JOHX  AI)l)I.\(Jl<ix  sVMdMls, 
Wllr)  rvfvirKAiil.i)  M  vhuot's 
I  riTRvKv  km)i:a\(ii  h> 


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'../ti^ar.^fci' 


yiXimiii^    111  II  T  I"  I" nuTiTiM   nwi  n' 


i 

I 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Balliol  College 

MvLEARMAnOARET,  ^'^^V/  2.'.,/.  ,801. 

It  was  very  ffocd  of  yoi,  t(,  write  me  such  a  nice 
note  I  hope  you  are  better.  I  rather  believe  iu 
people  beu.^  able  to  cure  themselves  of  muuv  ill- 

grTspirft  '''  '"  *"^'""^^-^'  P^"^^""*  '^"^  ''-^  - 

I  liked  your  two  friends  wh.,  visited  me  last 

Sunday   an.l  shall  hope  to  make  then,  friends  c!f 

m me     Asqmth  is  a  capital  fellow,  and  has  abilities 

poJitKs  He  IS  also  very  pleasant  sociallv.  I  like 
y  r  lady  friend.  She  has  both  "Sense  aiul  Se  i.!^! 
b.lit>%  and  IS  free  from  "Pride  ami  Prejudice" 
She  told  me  that  she  had  been  brought  up  b v  an 
Evangelical  gi-andmother,  and  is  none  thl  worse 

I  begin  to  think  bed  is  a  very  nice  place,  and  I  see 
a  great  c  eal  of  it,  not  altogether  from  laziness  but 
becai.se  it  is  the  only  way  in  which  I  am  able  to 

I  have  just  read  the  life  of  Xevvman,  who  was 
a  stranf^e  character.  To  me  he  seems  to  have  been 
the  most  artificial  man  of  our  generation,  full  of 
ecclesiastical  loves  and  hatred.  Consideri;ig  wha 
he  really  was,  it  is  wonderful  what  a  space  he  has 
filled  m  he  eyes  of  mankind.  In  speculation  he  was 
habitually  untruthful  and  not  much  better  in  prac- 
tice. IIis  cor  cience  had  been  taken  out,  and  the 
Church  put  .a  ,ts  place.  Yet  he  was  a  man  of 
genius  and  a  good  man  in  the  sense  of  being  dis- 
interested.     Truth  is  very  often  troublesome,  but 

[118] 


MARGOT  ASQiriTij 

Believe  nie  alvvuys. 

Vours  Jifrectic  mutely, 

H.  JoUKTT. 

Ballioi,  C(u.i.K<ii:, 

MV  „F.AR  MaROARKT,  ^V;;.  8.  1 802. 

n.e^  Tt'wiTli!'^""'  T^Y^r'''  --""^^lation  t., 

Poor  l^i       ^  ••'"'  *r  ^'""'^  "'^  "  *'''^''"1  '"  t'-'H'I'le. 
t-oor  Aettlesliip.  whom  ue  Juive  lost   wis  «  m«, 

who  cannot  be  replaced -cvrtainlv  not  in  Oxford 

touch' of'  '"'''  ^•""/  '"'"•  "^"^  ''^'J  -  consMe  ibk 
touch  of  renins  in  him.     He  seems  t*.  hj.v.wi;  -T 

^t^i;tef*i?^'f^--^^'^^^--''i^ 

vo.ce    ,nt  that  he  h„,.1c1  <1„  his  hesl      I  e  pr  hnhK 
san^  that  .son«-  of  Salvator  «nsa',s  which  we  S 
.so  often  heard  IVc.m  him.    He  wa.  w.Xi'uJK  bl 
ovec    by  the  under^nadnate.s,  because  thev    knew 

Of  his  writin^rs  there  is  not  much,  e.xcept  what 

cal  r^LS  "^'  '  '"^'  ''f'^  ^'"  '''^'^  - '^  book 

to  writf  andTS^r'^  ^M^^-     ""  ^■^■'^  he^.inning 
to  write,  and  I  think  would  have  written  well     He 

[114] 


AN  ATTTOIU()(;haI»IIN' 

was  al.s..  an  exctlkut  sptak.r  iiiul  kctiinr     Mr 
A.s<|iiifli  \v<.nl<|  I   11  y<»ii  ahonl  liiin. 

1   liavf   rircivid   iiiaiiv   Kftcrs  al»()iit   liiiii     hut 
none  of  Hum  has  touclicd  luc  as  in.ul.  as  vuiiis. 
I  iiank  yoii,  dtar. 

I  sec  that  you  arc  in  larnist  ahout  uiilln;r  -  ,„) 
.sJipsh(|(I  or  want  of  cnniuctinn.  Writinn  ir.,„ircs 
hoiiiujlfss  IcM.sdiv,  and  is  an  inHnitf  labour,  yci  lli.-rt' 
IS  also  a  VI rv  K'«^"it  pitasurc  in  it.  I  sliull  l)t  Jc- 
ligutc'i  to  read  your  sketches. 

Bai.mol  Coi.i.Kt;E 

,,  ,,  Dtr.  27th.  1802. 

My  dear  Margaret, 

I  have  been  reading  Lady  Jenne's  two  articles. 
I  am  glad  that  you  did  not  write  them  and  have 
never  written  anything  of  that  sort,     'riusc  criti- 
cisms on  Society  in  whirh  some  of  us  "live  a!ul  move 
and  have  our  being"  are  mistaken.     In  the  first 
place,  the  whole  fabric  of  society  is  a  great  mystcrv 
with  which  we  ought  not  to  take  liberties,  and"  which 
should  be  spoken  of  only  in  a  vvhisj)er  when  we  com- 
F)are  our  experiences,  whether  in  a  walk  or  tCtc-n- 
titCOT  "over  the  back  hair"  with  a  faithful,  rescrv,<l 
conhdante.    And  there  is  also  a  great  deal  that  is 
painful  in  the  absence  of  freedom  in  the  division  of 
ranks,  and  the  rising  or  falling  from  one  place  in 
It  to  another.    I  a.a  convinced  that  it  is  a  thing  not 
to  be  spoken  of;  what  we  can  do  to  improve  it  or 
do  It  good— whether  I,  the  head  of  a  college  at  Ox- 
ford, or  a  young  lady  of  fashion  (I  kni)w  that  y,,,, 
don  t  like  to  be  called  //taO— must  be  done  quite 
silently. 

[115] 


H 


(I 


!3 


I.  ^ 


MAlUiOT  ASQMITH 

not  for  tlu.  ^^    v'aux  H      /'^'"i''*'^*^'-'  '''  ''^  ^^rv 
"'.■'sf.Ts  talk  to  metlu  •    '^'""*'  "'  t''^-  Kl"n 

;;^h.  <.M  poo.  a;ety :  'S^i,^;;^»'-;-t„ . 

•'•t""«y  the  iirts  of  iinihn.,  «     !'  "'*^"'-       \\  c«  must 
dcHirnhlv  to  what  is   mn      •  7''''*'*  "*  f""^^'»''e  and 

f'Tt.  v,> uT,.?:  r  nt  n'  T""'*''  ^'"v^"""'  ^--^'''^  -f- 

are  about  if  v    .  |„  V        '  '  '  '."''  *"  '^^«'-  ^^'"'t  >'«"« 

nK"eanl,,,,tat«;/\r ',''''*''•  '"'**  "'' :  very 

The  fc.r  '  cs  ,  '  r\Tr  ';''  '^■'*''  ^"'^  *^'-'^  ""'^e'* 
There  is  a  te,  e  '•  h  flf"  n^''"  y^''>'  '^""''tiul. 
the  Cabinet.  C^th  L  /  'T;/";';'  ^^''''^'^'y  '« 
will  he  pushed  to  thet^e^tJ  r?'  "".'"^'  ""^^  «'" 
and  a  new  slu.ffle      the  e    d   wHlT  '^'•"^'''^''^' 

I^ord  K(,.seherv:  this  seomt  t  t«ke  plaee  un.ler 

^Ministry  ha.s  verv    nl     '       '"'  "''7  ''^■^''>'-    The 

paini„,4ound  Lk,  t  e  eSS  Ire  Z'^'-^'  "^  ""* 
hate  the  Irish  and  the  IViesh  '^^^'nni"*,'  to 

Mr.  MiJner's'  bo..k  tf  teat  sa^'f  'T  '"'^^''"^ 
interesting  and  very  in  porHnt  ?  r^';^.'""~"^"«* 
-ntten  you  a  dull  indT^Ii^^:;^^         '  ''^''^ 

Ever  yours, 

"le  Home  Office. 

fllGJ 


AX  ALTOmCK.UAPIIV 

Uai.i.ioj,  Com  r,(iK. 
»r  .,  /•'</'.  I.'J,  1803, 

1  In-^nin  at  tt-n  minutes  to  twelve  Inst  ni«lit  to 
vvntf  to  you,  |,„t  as  the  luMmnu  appoami  at  five 
minutes  to  twelve,  it  was  uatur.illv  euf  .«,hort  M  ,v 
I  heffin  where  I  left  ofFV  1  snoul.l  like  to  talk  U, 
you  about  many  things.  I  hope  vou  will  not  sav, 
as  Johnson  says  to  Uoswell.  "Sir.  vou  have  onlv 
two  .suhjet^s  yourself  an<l  n.e,  ancf  I  am  heartifv 
siek  of  both. 

I  have  been  delighted  with  .Mr.  As(|uith's  sue- 
cess.  He  .ms  the  certainty  of  a  great  man  in  him  - 
such  strength  and  simplicity  and  indepcudcK-e  and 
superiority  to  the  world  and  the  clubs.  V„„  seem 
to  me  very  fortunate  in  haxing  three  such  friends 
as  3Ir.  Asquith,  Mr.  ISIilner  and  Mr.  JJalfour.  I 
believe  that  you  may  do  a  great  deal  for  them,  and 
they  are  probably  the  first  men  of  their  time,  or  not 
very  far  short  of  it. 

Mr.  Balfour  is  not  so  good  a  leader  of  the  House 
ot  C  omnions  in  opposition  as  he  was  when  he  was 
111  oltiec.  lie  IS  too  aggressive  and  not  dignified 
enough.  I  fear  that  he  will  lose  weight.  He  hid 
better  not  coquette  with  the  fm.lish  and  unpractical 
thing  n.metalhsm"  or  write  books  on  -Thilos,,. 
phic  Doubt  ;  for  there  are  many  things  which  we 
must  certainly  believe,  are  there  not  ?  (^uite  enough 
either  for  the  highest  i.lealism  or  for  onliuarv  life. 
He  wd  probably.  l,ke  Sir  U.  Peel,  have  to  eiian.^e 
many  of  his  opinions  in  the  course  of  the  next  thirty 
years  and  he  should  be  on  his  guard  about  this.  oV 
he  will  commit  hmiself  in  such  a  manner  that  he  may 

[117] 


M 


\ 


-iOtl       •  I  ' 


r(  * 


MARGOT  ASQUITII 


wards.  It  seen  to  e  t  n  t'  "a! -"",  '^T  "'*^^''- 
;Jone  ».aclly  during  tlfe  la  f  fo  „i.  t'  ?h  '"7  ""* 
to  a  great  extent  rr.,..r».  im  f"'^''*-  ^  'i<^^.v  'lavc, 
creattd  ini^ln^^^^^^^  in.pressic.n  they  had 

disorder      Do  J  "  L-  i'^'  ''''''  *''^'  ^''•'^''"'s  "f 

''a^■e  -no  e  <  f  the     ih    T'  /  ''T'  ^'^''"  ^'^•^'''"^'  I 
C^mservativ^     7V,       ;•;;''";'"    '"  "'"  *''*'^"  "*■  t''e 

dc>neagreatdeaIof,oodtot^.eX>Ie;:;KSand: 

IIe.U)ix(jt()x  Hii.r,, 

near  Oxi-okd. 

MV  DKAK   MaRCAHET,  '^"''^  '^"'''-  l^^^' 

Difl  you  ever  read  thce  hnes?— 

'Tis  said  that  marriages  are  made  ahove- 
It  may  be  so,  sorne  few.  perhaps,  for   ove 

i  'ley  must  be  making-  m'>frhc,  here  all  day. 
[118] 


''ym^L^ 


1 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Aliss  Ni^rlitin^rale  talks  to  ine  of  "tlie  fc'elinij.s 
uv.:a.>ly  cHleti  love,"  but  then  she  is  a  heroine,  pei- 
ha[;s  K  g  ■  ;(lcss. 

This  5  n-e-niaking  is  a  very  serious  business, 
'o,,.;h  society  makes  fun  of  it,  perhaps  to  test  the 
truth  and  earnestness  of  tlie  lovers. 

.1  ^*r'''  }  f,"  •]"  ,"!'^  '"*■'"'  "'^^^t  *''^  P'>^'t  t-alls  '  on 
the  threshold  of  old  age"  (Homer),  and  I  am  not 

ver>-  romantic  or  sentimental  about  such  thin<rs 
but  I  would  do  anything  I  eould  to  save  any  mie 
who  cares  for  me  from  making  a  mistake. 

I  think  that  you  are  (piite  right  in  not  runniug 
the  risk  without  a  modest  abode  in  the  country 

The  real  doubt  about  the  affair  is  the  fanii'lv 
will  you  consider  this  and  talk  it  over  with  yolu' 
mother?     The  other  day  you  were  at  a  masmied 
ball,  as  you  told  me— a  few  months  hence  you  will 
have,  or  rather  may  be  having,  the  care' of  five 
children,  with  all  the  ailments  and  miseries  and  dis- 
agreeables of  children  (imlike  the  children  of  some 
of  your  friends)  and  not  your  own,  altliough  vou 
will  have  to  be  a  mother  to  them,  and  this  state  of 
things  will  last  during  the  greatest  part  of  vou.- 
lite.    Is  not  the  contrast  more  tiian  human  nature 
can  endure?    I  know  that  it  is,  as  you  said,  a  nobler 
manner  of  living,  but  are  you  equal  to  such  a  strug- 
gle.    If  you  are,  I  can  only  sav,  "God  bless  vou 
.vou  are  a  brave  girl."    Rut  I  would  not  have 'you' 
disguise  from  yourself  the  nature  of  the  trial      It 
IS  not  possible  to  be  a  leader  of  fashion  and  to  do 
your  duty  to  the  five  children. 

On  the  other  hand,  you  have  at  your  feet  a  man 
of  outstanding  ability  and  high  character,  and  who 

[119] 


H 


I 

i.  i 


^ivC^T^ 


ill 


IM 


^■1-1 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 


has  attaiiRHl  an  extraordinarv  Dositinn     fo.  u  *,. 
oils  to  vou  hecansp  vmi  .....  ^^  >v m  ne  graci- 

iifc  If  >ou  are  yourself  equal  to  it.  ^ 

.t..rL-"      -^'  I  ""^^"^  ^^""^^''•'^  I'f^-l^V  hiniself-verv 

Believe  nie,  my  dear  3Iargaret, 

Yours  truly  and  affectionately, 

B.  JOW'ETT. 

Balltol, 
My  dear  Margaret,  '^""^"•'^-    ^«^^- 

in  Hfe"is%15r  "f^  ^""  ^'i^^  ^'^^'-^t  ^^  ^^•^"t  most 
f  l^f  1  r^  *  ''.""^  P^'"*^^-  To  act  up  to  our  best 
I  ghts,  that  IS  quite  enough;  there  need  be  no  troul^le 
about  dogmas,  which  are  hardly  intellilrjh  *  t"  ^ 
nor  ought  there  to  be  any  troll^fbo  ^' tto.i  'd 
«n  M  \"^'''"''"^'  rxmach.,  of  which  the  yiew  of  tie 
v^orld  has  naturally  altered  in  the  course  of  ages! 


K^.L'  "icfc^iift 


mMI 


••>.'. 


% 


AX  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


I  UK-l.ule  ,n  tins  such  nuestions  as  wlictlier  Our 
Lord  rose  fron,  tJ.e  ck-ad  in  any  natural  sense  of     e 

'l!  •    -,   /';'r'-'^''  "  '''^'^^''^'"t  ••"'-'•'^ti''".  whether  we 
shaJI  mutate  Ilini  in  His  life  '-"lei  we 

sh-dlT  fl"''  -71  *l''V^  '"''•'"**  t''^^^^'  q.Hstions.  and 
hall  he  pleased    ,,  talk  t,.  y„n  ahout  then,.     V\'l, 

^^ordsl  ruth  and  Goodness,  hut  I  w„uld  not  have 
one  w.  hout  the  other,  and  if  1  had  t„  el  m/se  he- 

nrst  p  ace.  I  think,  also,  that  vou  niioht  nut  re- 
vlll"  'p"r'"  >'''^''; '?'''  "^  '--^'^"'"te  resi.niatio.  to  t  e 
f  \f  ^I'l-"' ■*  *''"  "•■''^■'-  ^'f  "'^ture.  There  tn  i  It 
he  other  dehn.t.ons,  equally  true,  hut  none^  u i te 
hetter  than  another  to  the  characters  of  men  s  ch 
as  the  nn.tat.on  of  Christ,  or  the  truth        all    e- 

f  tL  ct' t-""''V^"  *^"  "''^'""^'^^^  .lescriptton  of 
It      rhe  Christ.an  reh^nr.n  see.ns  to  n,e  to  extend  to 

1    ek  to!r  ?  "'1  ""^'i"  "'  •^'*"^''  ^"'^  then  to  co  n^ 
lest  w  V  '  "'• ''  conscience.     I  think  that  the 

|)cst  ^^a^  o    eons-  lenng  it,  and  the  most  interestino- 
IS  to  view  It  as  it  may  he  seen  in  the  lives  of  S 
men  everywhere,  whether  Christians  or  so-eS  e 
heathens-Socrates.   Plato,   Marcus   Aurelius     S 
Augustine,  as  well  as  in  the  lives  of  Cluist  o    B,  n^ 
yan,  or  Spinoza,    The  study  of  religious  liogranhy 

m-Xr^iVr'^"''  of  Disestahh-shment,  I  am  not 
hke  Mr.  Balfour  I  wohl.le  rather,  yet.  on  the  whole 

\\  elsh  Churcli.     Churches  are  so  worldly  and  so 
much  allied  to  the  interests  of  the  higher  classes     I 

[121J 


!  1  ' 


i 


I 
li 

iifi. 


i^ftli^wl 


i 


it 


iW 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

S^!^""*  ?  ^'""'""  ""'l"  '''"'""^^^  *'•  a  Church  should 
ti^2r,u  r  *^'*""  "''"^■^'  h''^  <^'h"rch,  above 

the  cm,,,„  and  a  good  part  of  the  ,,rayer,  above  the 
.J    a  us.an  Creed,  and  the  forn.  of  Ordination. 

n  eet  n.  '  Thf;"'/-^  ,^"1'^  /"^'""^^  '"^"'^  P^^lie 
bett,  S  n  f*  •nd.v.duals  have  always  been 
etter  than  Ciiurches,  thongh  1  do  not  go  so  far  as 
a  Ixerman  prolessor,  who  thinl,s  that  people  will 
never  be  rehg.ous  until  they  leave  off  gSing  o 
church,  yet  I  am  of  opinion  that  in  every  cong"?ga" 

IboirS  ^r.n"%l"^''  ^*^r'^'  *'>  raise^hentelfL 
above  the  tone  of  the  preacher  and  of  the  service 

1  am  sorry  to  hear  that  JMr.  Balfour    who  his 

oT  n    "^r'""-     ^u"*  ^  ^"^^  ^^^^  I  h«ve  talked 

Ih  n  '''';'""^\^  '''^"^'^  1'"^^  t«  t"Jk  to  vou  again 

cJ  rchirf  •    r*  'fT;%*","^^  P'-^'-'^'^  *'-t  the 
so     v^W         ^^  chsestabhshed,  because  it  has  been 

the  school  is  everywhere  taking  its  place. 

1  shall  look  forward  to  your  coming  to  see  me 
f  I  am  seriously  ill_"Be  with  me  when  my  lighTfs 
Present  V  ^'"'*  *'""'^  '^''  *'''^  illness 'which  I 

fci  n  f^:-  ""i"?''  ^"'^  '*  ^""^^  ^^  '-^ther  awkward 
toi  mj  friends  to  come  and  take  leave  of  me  if  I 
recovered,  which  I  mean  to  do.  for  what  I  think  a 
good  reason-because  I  .^.7/  have  a  good  deal  to  do 

B.  JOAVETT. 

My  beloved  friend  died  in  1893. 

The  year  before  his  death  he  had  the  dangerous 
[122] 


■SXHI^ 


ritWSi^ 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

illness  to  which  he  alludes  in  the  rbove  letter. 
Every  one  thoii^^l.t  |,e  would  die.  He  dictated  fare- 
well letters  to  all  his  fr"?nds  by  his  secretary  and 
housekeeper,  Miss  Knight.  On  receiveing  mine 
from  hun  at  CJlei,  I  was  so  much  annoyed  at  its 
tone  tliat  I  wired: 

Jowett  IJalliol  College  Oxford. 

I  refuse  to  accept  this  as  your  farewell  letter  to 
me  you  have  been  listening*  to  some  silly  woman 
and  believing  what  she  says.    Love. 

Margot. 

This  telegram  had  a  magical  effect:  he  got  stead- 
ily better  and  wrote  i  le  a  wonderful  letter.  I  re- 
member the  reason  that  I  was  vex<  ■]  was  because 
he  believed  a  report  that  I  had  knocked  up  against 
a  foreign  potentate  in  Kotten  Row  for  a  bet,  which 
was  not  only  untrue  but  ridiculous,  and  I  was  get- 
ting a  little  impatient  of  the  cattishness  and  cred- 
ulity of  the  West-end  of  London. 

JNIy  week-ends  nt  Balliol  were  different  to  my 
otlier  visits.  The  Master  took  infinite  trouble  over 
them.  Once  on  my  arrival  he  asked  me  which  of 
one  or  two  men  I  would  like  to  sit  next  to  at  dinner. 
I  said  I  should  prefer  Mr.  Huxley  or  Lord  Lo„en, 
to  which  he  replied: 

[123] 


,} 


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■■P 


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ir^- 


'i»' 


If 


n 


MARGOT  ASQUITII 

"I  would  like  you  to  have  on  your  other  side, 
cither  to-night  or  to-morr./w,  my  friend  Lord  Sel- 
horne*: 

Mak(;()t  (u-ith  mrim,sc) :  "Since  when  is  he  your 
friend?  I  was  under  the  impression  you  disliked 
him." 

Jowett:  "Vour  impression  was  right,  but  even 
the  youngest  of  us  are  sometimes  wrong,  as  Dr. 
Thompson  said,  and  I  look  upon  Lord  Selborne 
now  as  a  friend.  I  hope  I  said  nothing  against 
him." 

Margot:  "Oh  dear  no!    You  only  said  he  was 
fond  of  hymns  and  had  no  sense  of  humour." 

Jowett  {mappiM,,) :  "If  that  is  so,  Margaret, 
I  made  an  extremely  foolish  remark.     I  will  put 
you  between  Lord  Bowen  and  Sir  Alfred  Lyall. 
Was  it  not  strange  that  you  should  have  said  of 
I^yall  to  Huxley  that  he  reminded  you  of  a  faded 
Crusader  and  that  you  suspected  him  of  wearing  a 
coat  of  mail  under  his  broadcloth,  to  which  you  will 
remember  Huxley  remarked,  'Vou  mean  a'coating 
of  female,  without  which  no  man  is  saved!'    Your 
sister,  Lady  Ribblesdale,  said  the  very  same  thing 
to  me  about  him." 

'The  late  Karl  of  Selborna 


tl 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPiiy 

This  interested  nic,  as  C'haity  and  I  had  not 
spol-en  to  eaeh  other  of  Sir  Alfred  Lyall,  who  was 
a  new  acquaintance  of  ours. 

.Makgot:  "I  am  sure,  JMaster,  you  did  not  ^nve 
her  the  same  answer  as  Mr.  Iluxley  gave  me;  you 
don't  think  well  of  my  sex,  do  you?" 

Jowett:  "You  are  nrt  the  person  to  reproach 
me,  Margaret:  only  the  other  week  I  reproved  you 
for  saying  women  were  often  dull,  sometimes  dan- 
gerous and  always  dishonourable.  I  might  have 
added  they  were  rarely  reasonable  and  always  cour- 
ageous. Would  you  agree  to  this?" 
Margot:  "Yes." 

I  sat  between  Sir  Alfred  Lyall  and  Lord  Bowen 
that  night  at  dinner.  There  was  .nore  bouquet  than 
body  about  Sir  Alfred  and,  to  pan;  ly  Gibbon,  Lord 
Bowen's  mind  was  not  clouded  by  enthusiasm;  but 
two  more  delightful  men  never  existed.  After  din- 
ner, Huxley  came  across  the  room  to  me  and  said 
that  the  .ALister  had  confessed  he  had  done  him  out 
of  sitting  next  to  me,  so  would  I  talk  to  him?  We 
sat  down  together  and  our  conversation  opened  on 
religion. 

There  was  not  much  juste  viilieu  about  Iluxley. 
He  began  by  saying  God  was  only  there  because 

[12.-,] 


iKi 


i:j 


fe 


K'U 

'*i»«'  * 


'I 

pi. 
• '  It ' 


11 


» 


¥ 


JMAUCJOT  ASQUITII 

people  iK-Iievc.l  in  IIi,„,  and  that  the  fastidious  in- 
co/,m,to,  "I  an.  that  I  an,,"  uas  II.s  idea  of  h.nuour. 
etc.,  etc.    He  ended  l)y  sayin^r  Ik-  did  „„t  helieve  any 
man  of  action  had  ever  heen  inspired  hy  reh^ion 
I  thouo-ht  I  wonld  call  in  Lord  IJowen.  who  was 
sta.i.hn^r  aimlessly  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  to  my 
assistance.     He  insta,.tly  responded  and  drew  a 
chair  up  tons.    I  said  to  him; 

"Mr.  Huxley  challen^rcs  „,e  to  produce  any  man 
of  action  who  has  been  directly  inspired  by  re- 
ligion." 

UoAVEX  (tcith  a  deck  smile):  "Between  us  we 
sliould  he  able  to  answer  him,  Miss  Tennant,  I 
think.    Who  is  your  man?' 

Every  idea  seemed  to  scatter  out  of  my  brain.    I 
suggested  at  random: 
"Gordon." 

I  might  have  been  reading  his  thoughts,  for  it  so 
happened  that  Huxley  adored  General  Gordon 
Huxley:  "Ah!    There  you  rather  have  me!" 
He  had  obviously  had  enough  of  me,  for,  chang- 
mg  the  position  of  his  chair,  as  if  to  engage  Bowen 
m  a  fctc-a-tetc,  he  said : 

"My  dear  Bowen,  Gordon  was  the  most  remark- 
able man  I  ever  met.     I  know  him  well;  he  was 
[126] 


HiPliPill 


'^v^ 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

sincere  and  disintorcstetl,  (|iiite  incapable  of  saying 
anythinj^  he  did  not  think.  You  will  hardly  believe 
me,  but  one  day  he  said  in  tones  of  passionate 
conviction  that,  if  lie  were  to  walk  round  the  corner 
of  the  street  and  have  his  brains  shot  out,  he  would 
only  be  transferred  to  a  wider  sphere  of  govern- 
ment." 

BowEx:  "Would  the  absence  of  brains  have  bcpn 
of  any  help  to  him?" 

After  this,  our  mutual  good  humour  was  restored 
and  I  only  had  tin.e  for  a  word  with  Mrs.  Green 
before  the  evening  was  ruined  by  Jowett  taking  us 
across  the  quad  to  hear  moderate  music  in  the  hid- 
'ous  Balliol  hall.  Of  all  the  Master's  women 
friends,  I  infinitely  preferred  INIrs.  T.  H.  Green, 
John  Addington  Symonds'  sister.  She  is  among 
the  rare  women  who  have  all  the  qualities  which  in 
moments  of  disillusion  I  deny  to  them. 

I  spent  my  last  week-end  at  Balliol  when 
Jowett's  health  appeared  to  have  completely  re- 
covered. On  the  Monday  morning,  after  his  guests 
had  gone,  I  went  as  usual  into  his  study  to  talk  to 
him.  ^ly  wire  on  receiving  his  death-bed  letter  had 
amused  but  distressed  him;  and  on  my  arrival  he 
pressed  me  to  tell  him  what  it  was  he  had  written 

[127] 


rl 


•I 


^ 


MAIUJOT  Asyciiii 

fe...lcd.  only  l,„rt.     1,.,  ,„t,,|  „,^.  „.,,„, 

™'7"Vf'"' ''"-■•«■■«■"  inn,,!,,  answer 

tl.n.  ,„,..„„«,„  Kli.ah..„,  „,,„.  L,,,,,  c.r.y.  when 
he  ...skc.!  I,er  tl,e  ,u„,e  ,,„,„;„„,  ,,„,;.,.  ™ 

hear?.'  ""'  """''"  *™^  ^■''"">'  """  "-^  <-"»-  you, 

I  do  not  know  what  I  saW,  l„u  i  ,„|,|  ,,,„  , 
•.."  e  u,„,fl.en,le,l  „„„  wi,h.,„,  ,o„ch,„e»,  „u.  Z 
h.s  Ic'tter  had  all  .he  faults  of  a  schoohnaster  and  a 
*r.<'  .n  ,t  and  „„,  ,he  love  of  a  fnend.  He  listened 
t«  me  with  his  usual  patienee  and  sweetness  d  e.^ 
pressed  his  reprel. 

On  the  Monday  momi„«  of  whieh  I  an,  writing 
.nd  on  wh,rf,  we  ha.l  our  las,  eonversation,  I  had 

made  up  ,„ynund  that,  as  .had  spoilt  „any«:d 
oonversat,ons  by  lalkin.  too  much  mvself,  „,„ 

ho  dm,.  to„p„  „„,,  ,^j  „,^  ,j^^^^^  ^^^ 

the  first  move.  I  had  not  had  much  experienee  of 
h..  elass,eal  and  devastating  silences  and  had  often 
•lefended  h,m  fron,  the  ehar„e;  but  it  was  time  to 
see  what  happened  if  I  talked  less. 

■I'iicoiiiit  Orey  of  F.Uodoo. 

ri28i 


"**=♦**;■_'-»  ■»-^ 


I 

.33 

3 


AN  AITTORKKIHAPIIY 

When  wc  got  into  tlu-  room  and  hv  had  sliut  the 
door,  r  uhst-nlly  seleftcd  the  only  cornfortahic  chair 
and  we  sat  down  next  to  each  other.  A  lon^'  and 
quelling  silence  followed  the  lighting  of  my  cijra- 
rette.  Feeling  rather  at  a  I(K)se  end.  I  thought  out 
a  few  stage  directions— "here  husiness  with  hand- 
kerchief, etc."— and  adjusted  the  buckles  on  my 
shoes.  I  looked  at  some  photographs  and  fingered 
a  paper-knife  and  odds  and  ends  on  the  table  near 
me.  The  oppressive  silence  continued.  I  strolled 
to  the  book-shelves  and,  under  cover  of  a  copy  of 
Country  Conven-ntionti.  peeped  at  the  Master.  lie 
appeared  to  be  (|uite  unaware  of  my  existence. 

"Nothing  doing,"  said  1  to  myself,  putting  back 
the  book. 

Something  had  switched  him  off  as  if  he .  '  been 
the  electric  light. 

At  last,  breaking  the  silence  with  considerable 
impatience.  I  said: 

"Really,  Master,  there  is  very  little  excuse  for 
your  silence!  Surely  you  have  something  to  say  to 
me,  something  to  tell  me;  yon  have  had  an  experi- 
ence since  we  talked  to  each  other  that  I  have  never 
had:  you  have  been  near  Death." 

[129] 


■I 


!, 


-^ 


•r>  *■ 


%, 


fh 


m 


^ 


MAUCiOT  ASQIJITII 

JowKrr  (tiot  in  an,,  tea,/  put  out):  "I  Mi  no 
rapture.  „o  hliss."  (S.uf^fn.l,,  fook-inr,  at  mc  and 
tahng  my  hand.)  "My  .l^ar  ohil.l.  y.n,  must  be- 
lieve in  God  in  spite  of  wiiut  the  clergy  say." 


[180] 


no 
nd 


CITArTKR  III 

FAST  AND  FURIOrs  lll'NT;\0  IX  LEICF.STF.RSHIRF — 
COUNTRY  IIOrsK  I'AHTY  AND  A  NKW  ADMIHKR — 
FRIENDSHIP  M'lTH  LORD  AND  LADY  MANNERS 

MV  friendship  with  Lord  and  Lady  Manners,* 
of  Avon  Tyrrell,  probably  made  more  differ- 
ence to  the  eourse  of  my  life  than  anything  that 
had  happened  in  it. 

Riding  was  what  I  knew  and  cared  most  about; 
and  I  dreamt  ot  High  Leicestershire.  I  had  hunted 
in  Cheshire,  where  you  killed  three  foxes  a  day  and 
found  yourself  either  clattering  among  cottages  and 
clothes-lines,  or  blocked  by  carriages  and  crowds; 
I  knew  the  stiff  plough  and  tine  horses  of  Yorkshire 
and  the  rotten  grass  in  the  Bicester;  I  had  struggled 
over  the  large  fences  and  small  enclosures  of  the 
Grafton  and  been  a  heroine  in  the  select  fields  and 
large  becks  with  the  Rurton;  and  the  Beaufort  had 
seen  the  dawn  of  my  fox-hunting;  but  Melton  was 
a  name  which  brought  the  Hon.  Crasher  before  me 

*Avon  Tyrrell,  Clirihtchurch,  Hants.     Lady  Manners  wit.  a  Miss 
Fane. 

[181] 


''■\ 


I  I 


<i 


m 


1"^ 


■'  1ti 


rf!  '5 


I 


m) 


W^ 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 
knew  „otu„df    ^""™  "*  "'■"""•  "^  »"*™e„, 

refused  as  I  htdlvl '''"'"''  *'"  '■""""™  ^  '«'d 

to  hounds  in  LeieestersWr^r    ,  "'  """ 

In  consequence  of  t^/f  """*"''  '"^  """'>• 

of  the  lale  Lord  Ba.te     ,_  !  1  f    ""7"  ''"""" 
ment  with  a  couni,  „!,      T  ™"'  ™  """ch- 

n>e  for  more  Znl    T       ""^  ""''  »""'"-^  *« 

^en;*edn,;x:r;:jr-----anden,. 

~"r^i:t-:---edh^^ 

■■^in«,e-n,i„ded..  descLd^  ll t"';":  ^'^ 

™»  only  equalled  by  his  sense  of  h  """' 

-re orig,na,,  tender.' truthfln^'™""?:'  ' 

never  existed.    He  was  a  fi„  '       ' '"""« 

[132]  "'  sportsman  and  had 


,m:''.>^'^l\ 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
won  the  Grand  Militar>'  when  he  was  in  the  Gren- 
adiers, ri.lin^r  one  of  his  own  hunters;  he  was  also 
the  second  gentleman  m  England  to  win  the  Grand 
National  in  1882,  on  a  thoroughbred  called  Seaman, 
who  was  by  no  means  every  one's  horse.  For  other 
people  he  cared  nothing.  "Dccidcment  Jc  n'aime 
pas  les  autrea;'  he  would  have  said,  to  quote  my 
son-in-law,  Antoine  Bibesco. 

His  wife  often  said  that,  but  for  her,  he  would 
not  have  asked  a  creature  inside  the  house;  be  this 
as  it  maj^  no  host  and  hostess  could  have  been  more 
socially  susceptible  or  given  their  guests  a  warmer 
welcome  than  Con  and  Hoppy  Manners. 

What  I  loved  and  admired  in  him  was  his  keen- 
ness and  his  impeccable  unworldliness.  He  was 
perfectly  independent  of  public  opinion  and  as  free 
from  rancour  as  he  was  from  fear,  malice  or 
acerbity.  He  never  said  a  stupid  thing.  Some 
people  would  say  that  this  is  not  a  compliment,  but 
the  amount  of  silly  things  that  I  have  heard  clever 
people  say  makes  me  often  wonder  what  is  left  for 
the  stupid. 

His  wife  was  very  different,  though  quite  as  free 
from  rhetoric. 

Under  a  becalmed  exterior  Con  Manners  was  a 

[133] 


/I 
1 


p  ' 


i: 


i 


n< 


I  i.'i 


I 


i 


N 


:il 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

little  brittle  and  found  it  difficult  to  say  she  was 
in  the  wrong;  this  impenitence  caused  some  of  her 
lovers  a  suffering  of  which  she  was  unconscious;  it 
is  a  minor  failing  which  strikes  a  dumb  note  in  me, 
but  which  I  have  since  discovered  is  not  only  com- 
mon, but  almost  universal.    I  often  warned  people 
of  Con's  dangerous  smile  when  I  observed  them 
blundering  along;  but  though  she  was  uneven  in 
her  powers  of  forgiveness,  the  serious  quarrel  of 
her  life  was  made  up  ultimately  without  reserve. 
Lady  Manners  was  clever,  gracious,  and  under- 
standing; she  was  more  worldly,  more  adventurous 
and  less  deprecating  than  her  husband;   people 
meant  a  great  deal  to  her;  and  the  whole  of  London 
■was  at  her  feet,  except  those  lonely  men  and  women 
who  specialise  in  collecting  the  famous  as  men  col- 
lect centipedes. 

To  digress  here,  I  asked  my  friend  Mr.  Birrell 
once  how  the  juste  milieu  was  to  be  found— for  an 
enterprising  person— between  running  after  the 
great  men  of  the  day  and  missing  them;  and 
he  said : 

"I  would  advise  you  to  live  among  your  superiors, 
Margot,  but  to  be  of  them." 
Con  was  one  of  the  few  women  of  whom  it  could 
[134] 


I  I 


»p- 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

be  said  that  she  was  in  an  equal  degree  a  wonderful 
wife,  mother,  sister  and  friend.  Her  charm  of 
manner  and  the  tenderness  of  her  regard  gave  her 
face  beauty  that  was  independent — ahnost  a  rival 
of  fine  features — and  she  was  a  sair '     '  goodness. 

Her  love  of  flowers  made  every  part  of  her  home, 
inside  and  out,  radiant;  and  her  sense  of  humour 
and  love  of  being  entertained  stimulated  the  witty 
and  the  lazy. 
f%  For  nineteen  years  I  watched  her  go  about  her 

daily  duties  with  a  quiet  grace  and  serenity  in- 
finitely restful  to  live  with,  and  when  I  was 
separated  from  her  it  nearly  broke  my  heart.  In 
connection  with  the  love  Con  and  I  had  for  each 
other  I  will  only  add  an  old  French  quotation: 

"Par  grace  infinie  Dieu  les  mist  au  monde  en- 
semble" 

My  dear  friend.  Mrs.  Hamlyn,  was  the  chate- 
laine of  the  famous  Clovelly,  in  Devonshire,  and 
was  Con's  sister.  She  had  the  spirit  of  eternal  youth 
and  was  full  of  breathless  admiration.  I  hardly 
ever  met  any  one  who  derived  so  much  pleasure  and 
surprise  out  of  ordinary  life.  She  was  as  uncritical 
and  tolerant  of  those  she  loved  as  she  was  narrow 
and  vehement  over  those  who  had  unaccountably 

[135] 


MARGOT  ASQITITH 

s°enl"1t  t"-    '''  f  '"  ''■'""»'  "^  -r„io„s 
se„«  of  humour  and  was  baffled  and  Mouie  by 

mlh.r''„''  "T""  ™'«"  ""''  "diculous  they 
Zt  .'  ""  '  '"  ""'  ™»  ^"e  was  a  snob- 
en  the  contrary  she  made  and  kept  friends  among 

fa^hfu  hosp„ah,j.;  but  she  was  old-fashioned  and 

thought  that  all  duehesses  were  ladies 
Christine  Hamiyn  was  a  eharacter-part:  but  if 

^mae  ,nery  was  not  invented  hy  whie'h  you  Jou  J 
remove  her  prejudices,  no  tank  could  turn  her  from 
her  fnends.    It  was  through  the  Souls  and  thes" 

r.n  s^hom  I  have  endeavoured  to  describe  th 
i  entered  mio  »  new  phase  of  my  life. 


[1«8] 


CHAPTER  IV 

MAHGOT  FALLS  IN  LOVE  AGAIN— "hAVOC"  IN  THE 
HUNTING  field;  A  FALL  AM)  A  I)L'CKING~THE 
FAMOUS    MRS.    BO;    UNHEKDEI)    ADVICE    FROM    A 

HIVAL A   lovers'   quarrel— I  ETEH    JUMPS    IN 

THE  WINDOW— THE  AMERICAN  TROTTER— AN- 
OTHER LO>'ER  INTERVENES— PETER  RETURNS 
FROM  INDIA;  ILLUMINATION  FROM  A  DARK 
WOMAN 

nPHE  first  time  I  evei  saw  Peter  Flower  was  at 
-■■  Ranelagh,  where  he  had  taken  my  sister 
Charty  Ribblesdale  to  watch  a  polo-match!  They 
were  sitting  together  at  an  iron  table,  under  a  cedar 
tree,  eating  ices.  I  was  wearing  a  grey  muslin  dress 
with  a  black  sash  and  a  black  hat,  with  coral  beads 
round  my  throat,  and  heard  him  say  as  I  came  up 
to  them : 

"Nineteen?  Not  possible!  I  should  have  said 
fifteen!    Is  that  the  one  that  rides  so  well ?" 

After  shaking  hands  I  sat  down  and  looked  about 
me. 

I  always  notice  what  men  wear;  and  Peter 
Flower  was  the  best-dressed  man  I  had  ever  seen. 

[137] 


ii 


wmimmm 


I  ■• 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  do  not  kn„„  „,,„  ,„„,_,  ^^^.^  ^^^^  ^.^ 

After  h,.s  cl,„l,e.,.  „|,„,  J  „,  „„^^  „„,^^ 
h..  pec„l,ar.  ,,l„,„„  ,„„•„,,,  ^,,„,  ,,„„„f^,  ^j^; 
shoulder,,  fa.se,„at,VI„„gh  and  infectious  vitality 
Laurence  Oliphant  once  said  to  me.  'I  divide  the 
«^rld  m„  I,fe-g,vers  and  life-,„ker.";  and  I  have 
often  had  reason  to  feel  the  truth  of  this,  being  as 
I  am  acutely  sensitive  to  high  spirits.    On  looking 
back  a  ong  the  gallery-  of  my  acquaintance,  I  ca^ 
find  no,  more  than  three  or  four  people  as  tenacous 
of  hfe  as  Peter  was:    Lady  Desborough.  Lady 
Cunar,!,  my  son  Anthony  and  myself.    There  ire 
vanous  kinds  of  high  spirits:  some  so  crude  and 
rough-tongued  that  they  vitiate  what  thev  touch 
«nd  estrange  every  one  of  sensibility  and  ^ome  so 
.ns.stent  that  they  tire  and  sufTocate  vou:   b  t 
Peter  s  vitality  revived  and  restored  eve;y  one  he 
oame  m  contact  with;  and,  when  I  said  good-bye  to 
h.m    hat  day  at  Ranelagh,  although  /cannot  re! 
member  a  smgle  sentence  of  any  interest  spoken 
by  hun  or  by  me,  my  mind  was  absorbed  in  thinking 
of  when  and  how  1  could  meet  him  again 

In  the  winter  of  that  same  year  I  went  with  the 
R<bb  esdales  to  stay  with  Peter's  brother,  Lord 
[138] 


!'•       i 


m 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Battersea.  to  have  a  hunt.  I  took  with  me  the  best 
of  hats  and  hahits  and  two  leggy  and  faded  hire- 
Imgs,  hoping  to  pick  up  a  mount.  Charty  having 
twisted  her  knee  the  day  after  we  arrived,  this  en- 
abled me  to  ride  the  horse  on  which  Peter  was  to 
have  mounted  her;  and  fidl  of  spirits  we  all  went 
off  to  the  meet  of  the  Bicester  hounds.  I  had  hardly 
spoken  three  words  to  my  benefactor,  but  Ribbles- 

dale  had  rather  unwisely  told  him  that  I  was  the 

best  rider  to  hounds  in  England. 
At  the  meet  I  examined  my  mount  closely  while 

the  man  was  lengthening  my  stirnap.    Havoc,  as 

he  was  called,  was  a  dark  chestnut.  16.1,  with  a  coat 

like  the  back  of  a  violin  and  a  spiteful  little  head. 

He  had  an  enormous  bit  on;  and  I  was  glad  to  see 

a  leather  strap  under  the  curb-chain. 

When  I  was  mounted,  Peter  kept  close  to  my  side 
and  said: 

"You're  on  a  topper!    Take  him  where  you  like, 
but  rid.  your  own  line." 
To  which  I  replied  : 

"Why?    Does  he  nish?    I  had  thought  of  fol- 
lowing  you." 

Peteh:  "Not  at  all,  but  he  may  ptdl  you  a  bit,  so 
keep  away  from  the  field;  the  fence  isn't  made  that 

[139] 


1 


fi  ■' 


Hi 


II 


ill    '^1 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

he  can't  jump;  and  as  for  water,  he's  a  swallow! 
I  wish  I  eouJd  say  the  same  of  mine!  We've  got  a 
brook  round  a!)out  here  with  rotten  hanks,  it  will 
catch  the  best!  But.  if  we  are  near  each  other,  you 
must  come  alongside  and  go  first  and  mine  will 
very  likely  follow  you.  I  don't  want  to  spend  the 
night  in  that  beastly  brook." 

It  was  a  good  scenting  day  and  we  did  not  take 
long  to  find.  I  stuck  to  Peter  Flower  while  the 
Bicester  hounds  raced  across  the  heavy  grass  to- 
wards a  hairy-looking  ugly  double.  In  spite  of  the 
ironmonger's  shop  in  Havoc's  mouth,  I  had  not  the 
faintest  control  over  him,  so  I  said  to  Peter: 

"Vou  know,  Mr.  Flower,  /  can't  stop  your 
horse!" 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  charming  smile  and  said: 

"But  why  should  you?  Hounds  are  running!" 

Margot:  "But  I  can't  turn  him!" 

Peter:  "It  doesn't  matter!  They  are  running 
straight.    Hullo!  Look  out!  Look  out  for  Hydy!" 

We  were  going  great  gims.  I  saw  a  man  in  front 
of  me  slowing  up  to  the  double,  so  shouted  at  him: 

"Get  out  of  my  way!  Get  out  of  my  way!" 

I  was  certain  that  at  the  pace  he  was  going  he 
would  take  a  heavy  fall  and  I  should  be  on  the  top 
[140] 


M 


m  i 

hi,  '   ' 


.i^^,•■--  r^yisrk:x:z''  .mT^-.-.^.  iTi^i 


AN  AUTOBIOGILfVPIIV 

of  him.    While  in  the  act  of  turning  round  to  see 
who  it  was  that  was  shouting,  his  wilhng  horse 
paused  and  I  shot  past  him,  taking  away  his  spur 
in  my  habit  skirt.     I  heard  a  voUey  of  oaths  as  I 
jimiped  into  the  jun^de.    Havoc,  however,  did  not 
hke  the   brambles  and.   steadying   himself   as  he 
landed,  arched  with  the  activity  of  a  cat  over  a 
high  rail  on  the  other  side  of  the  double;  I  turned 
round  and  saw  Peter's  horse  close  behind  me  hit 
the  rail  and  peck  heavily  upon  landing,  at  which 
Peter  gave  him  one  down  the  shoulder  and  looked 
furious, 

I  had  no  illusions!    I  was  on  a  horse  that  nothing 
could  stop!     Seeing  a  line  of  willows  in  front  of 
me,  I  shouted  to  Peter  to  come  along,  as  I  thought 
if  the  brook  was  ahead  of  us  I  could  not  possibly 
keep  close  to  him,  going  at  that  pace.    To  my  sur- 
prise  and  delight,  as  we  approached  the  willows 
Peter  passed  me  an.      ..  .  ..cer  widened  out  in  front 

of  us;  I  saw  by  his  ^ct  face  that  it  was  neck  or 
nothing  with  him.  H.voc  was  going  well  within 
himself,  but  his  stable-companion  was  precipitate 
and  flurried;  and  before  I  knew  what  had  happened 
Peter  was  in  the  middle  of  the  brook  and  I  was 
jumping  over  his  head.    On  landing  I  made  a  large 

[141] 


rJ.TJ3Est-^^feM3.- 


if 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

circle  round  the  field  away  from  hound"  trying  to 
pull  up ;  and  when  I  could  turn  round  I  found  my- 
self facing  the  brook  again,  with  Peter  dripping 
on  the  bank  nearest  to  me.  Havoc  pricked  his  f  an , 
passed  him  like  a  flash  and  jumped  the  brook  again; 
but  the  bank  on  landing  was  boggy  and  while  we 
were  floundering  I  got  a  pull  at  him  by  putting  the 
curb-rein  under  my  ponunel  and,  exhausted  and 
distressed,  I  jumped  off.  Peter  burst  out  laughing. 
"We  seem  to  be  separated  for  life,"  he  said.  "Do 
look  at  my  damned  horse!" 

I  looked  down  the  water  and  saw  the  animal 
standing  knee-deep,  nibbling  grass  and  mud  off  the 
bank  with  perfect  composure. 

Margot:  "I  really  believe  Havoc  would  jump 
this  brook  for  a  third  time  and  then  I  should  be  by 
your  Fide.  What  luck  that  you  aren't  soaked  to  the 
skin;  hadn't  I  better  look  r  't  for  the  second  horse- 
men? Hounds  by  now  w^  >e  at  the  sea  and  I  con- 
fess I  can't  ride  your  hor  .  does  he  always  pull  like 
this?" 

Peter:  "Yes,  l;e  cptches  hold  a  bit.  but  what  do 
you  mean?  You  rode  him  beautifully.  Hullo! 
What  is  that  spur  doing  in  your  skirt?" 

Maegot:  "I  took  it  off  the  man  that  you  call 
[142] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

'Ilydy.'  who  was  goinff  so  sticky  at  the  doiihlc 
when  we  started." 

l»KTi.n:  "Toor  old  Clarendon!  I  advise  you  to 
keep  his  spur,  he'll  never  j^uess  who  took  it;  and,  if 
I  know  anything  about  him,  there  will  he  no  love 
lost  between  you  even  if  you  do  return  it  to  him!" 

I  was  longing  for  another  horse,  as  1  eould  not 
bear  the  idea  of  K<>'nK  home.  At  that  moment  a 
■  .  'e  file  of  seeond  horse-men  eame  in  sight;  and 
Pete.'s  well-trained  servant,  on  a  thoroughbred 
grey,  n.  "e  up  to  us  at  the  conventional  trot.  Peter 
lit  a  ciga.  and,  pointing  to  the  brof)k,  said  to  his 
man: 

"Cio  off  and  get  a  rope  and  hang  that  brute!  Or 
haul  him  out,  will  you?    And  give  me  my  lunch." 

VVe  were  miles  away  from  any  human  habitation 
and  I  felt  depressed. 

"IVrhaps  I  had  better  ride  home  with  your  man," 
said  I,  looking  tentatively  at  Peter. 

"Home!    What  for?"  said  he. 

Makgot:  "Are  you  sure  Havoc  is  not  tired?" 

Peter:  "I  wish  to  God  he  was!  I  ut  I  daresay 
this  infernal  Bicester  grass,  which  is  heavier  than 
anything  I  saw  in  Yorkshire,  has  steadied  him  a 
bit;  you'll  see  he'll  go  far  better  with  you  this  dfter- 

[143] 


fl 


I 


'I 


M ARGOT  ASQITITH 

noon.  I'm  awfully  Norrj'  uml  would  put  you  on  my 
second  horse,  hut  it  isn't  mine  utul  I  in  told  it's  got 
a  bit  of  a  temper;  if  you  go  through  that  gate  we'll 
'lave  our  lunch  together.  .  .  .  Iluve  u  ciga- 
"•tte?" 

I  srni)e<l  and  shook  my  head;  my  mouth  was  as 
'./•y  as  a  Japanese  toy  and  I  felt  shatttiol  with 
i;.t';  '  .lie  ground  on  which  I  was  standing  was 
..;  (  ,.rH  I  was  afraid  of  walking  in  c;ise  I  should 
!'  .'•'  boots  in  it,  so  I  tapped  the  back  of  IIav<.c'.s 

1.  tioi  ivs  till  I  got  him  stretched  and  with  gnat  skill 
mounted  myself.  This  filled  Peter  with  mimira- 
tion;  and,  lifting  his  hat.  he  said: 

"Well!  You  are  the  ver\  first  wciuian  I  ever 
saw  mount  herself  without  two  men  and  a  boy  hang- 
ing on  to  the  horse's  head." 

I  rode  towards  the  gate  and  Peter  joined  me  a 
few  minutes  later  on  his  second  horse.  He  praised 
my  riding  and  promised  he  would  mount  me  any 
day  in  the  week  if  I  could  only  get  some  one  to  ask 
me  down  to  Brackley  where  he  kept  his  he  ses;  he 
said  the  Grafton  was  the  courjtry  to  hunt  in  and 
that,  though  Tom  Firr,  the  huntsman  of  the  Quorn, 
was  the  greatest  man  in  England,  Frank  Beers  was 
hard  to  beat.  1  felt  pleased  at  lys  admiration  for 
[144] 


i 


i' 


ffe:J' 

|K| 

1  ^ 

i^Ht 

f  ■  \ 

n^^ 

K 

(I 


VIS.,.,    VT.iRKV    ,1.    H V.    IHIKM.  or   TMl:     VHUUTH    .   ^MIIY 

AN-n  s,:.Ki-:»wv  <..-   -lAil-  i..K  in„i:u.N    u  i  vih,  „  ,,.,s 

KMil  AMI  SKM-  Tin;    IIIIMAIIM    ID 
lilKM  VN  V    IN     I  ill  1 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

my  riding,  but  I  knew  Havoc  had  not  turned  a  hair 
and  that,  if  I  went  on  liunting,  I  should  kill  either 
myself,  Peter  on  some  one  else. 

"Aren't  you  nervous  when  you  see  a  helpless 
woman  riding  one  of  your  horses?"  I  said  to  him. 

Peter:  "Xo,  I  am  only  afraid  she'll  hurt  my 
horse!  I  take  her  off  pretty  quick,  I  can  tell  you, 
if  I  think  she's  going  to  spoil  my  sale;  but  I  never 
mount  a  woman.  Your  sister  is  a  magnificent  rider, 
or  I  would  never  have  put  her  on  that  horse.  Now 
come  along  and  with  any  luck  you  will  be  alone  with 
hounds  this  afternoon  and  Havoc  will  be  knocked 
down  at  Tattersalls  for  five  hundred  guineas." 
]\Iargot:  "You  are  sure  you  want  me  to  go  on?" 
Peter:  "You  think  I  want  you  to  go  home? 
Very  well!    If  you  go     .     .     .     /go!" 

I  longed  to  have  the  courage  to  say,  "Let  us  both 
go  home,"  but  I  knew  he  would  think  that  I  was 
funking  and  it  was  still  oarly  in  the  day.  He  looked 
at  me  steadily  and  said: 

"I  will  do  exactly  what  you  like." 

I  looked  at  him,  but  at  that  moment  the  hounds 

came  in  sight  and  my  last  chance  was  gone.     We 

shogged  along  to  the  next  cover,  Havoc  as  mild  as 

milk.    I  was  amazed  at  Peter's  nerve:  if  any  horse 

[145] 


JMI 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

of  mine  had  taken  sach  complete  charge  of  its  rider, 
I  should  have  been  in  a  state  of  anguish  till  I  had 
separated  them;  but  he  was  riding  along  talking 
and  laughing  in  front  of  me  in  the  highest  of  spirits. 
This  lack  of  sensitiveness  irritated  me  and  my  heart 
sank.  Before  reaching  the  cover,  Peter  came  up 
to  me  and  suggested  that  we  should  change  Havoc's 
bit.  I  then  perceived  he  was  not  quite  so  happy  as 
I  thought ;  and  this  determined  me  to  stick  it  out.  I 
thanked  him  demurely  and  added,  with  a  slight  and 
smiling  shrug: 

"I  fear  no  bit  can  save  me  to-day,  thank  you." 

At  which  Peter  said  with  visible  irritability; 

"Oh,  for  God's  sake  then  don't  let  us  go  on!  If 
you  hate  my  horse  I  vote  we  go  no  farther!" 

"What  a  cross  man!"  I  said  to  myself,  seeing  him 
flushed  and  snappy;  but  a  ringing  "Halloa!" 
brought  our  deliberations  to  an  abmpt  end. 

Havoc  and  I  shot  down  the  road,  passing  the 
blustering  field;  and,  hopping  over  a  gap,  we  found 
ourselves  close  to  the  hounds,  who  were  running 
hell-for-leather  towards  a  handsome  country  seat 
perched  upon  a  hill.  A  park  is  what  I  hate  most 
out  hunting:  hounds  invariably  lose  the  line,  the 
field  loses  its  way  and  I  lose  my  temper. 
[146] 


'mp^^sm'^'• 


*.i?BS»»F/;^:*  i<®f?!PEr5fii 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

I  looked  round  to  see  if  my  benefactor  was  near 
me,  but  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Eight  or  ten 
hard  riders  were  behind  me;  they  shouted: 

"Don't  go  into  the  wood!  Turn  to  your  leftl 
Don't  go  into  the  wood  I" 

I  saw  a  fancy  gate  of  yellow  polished  oak  in  front 
of  me,  at  the  end  of  or-  of  the  grass  rides  in  the 
wood,  and  what  looked  like  lawns  beyond.    I  was 
unable  to  turn  to  the  left  with  my  companions,  but 
plunged  into  the  trees  where  the  hounds  paused: 
not  so  Havoc,  who,  in  spite  of  the  deep  ground,  was 
still  going  great  guns.    A  lady  behind  me,  guessing 
what  had  happened,  left  her  companions  and  man- 
aged somehow  or  other  to  pass  me  in  the  ride;  and, 
as  I  approached  the  yellow  gate,  she  was  holding  it 
open  for  me.    I  shouted  my  thanks  to  her  and  she 
shouted  back: 
"Get  off  when  you  stop !" 
This  was  my  fixed  determination,  as  I  had  ob- 
served that  Havoc's  tongue  was  over  the  bit  and 
he  was  not  aware  that  any  one  was  on  his  back,  nor 
was  he  the  least  tired  and  no  doubt  would  have 
jumped  the  yellow  gate  with  ease. 

After  leaving  my  saviour  I  was  joined  by  my 
former  companions.    The  hounds  had  picked  up 

[147] 


(    >! 
t 

1 


jincssiBK::  -fe- 


f« 


Jii 


'M-  ! 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

again  and  we  left  the  gate,  the  wood  and  the  country 
seat  behind  us.     Still  going  very  strong,  we  all 
turned  into  a  chalk  field  with  a  white  road  sunk 
between  two  high  banks  leading  down  to  a  ford. 
I  kept  on  the  top  of  the  bank,  as  I  was  afraid  of 
splashing  people  in  the  water,  if  not  knocking  them 
down.    Two  men  were  standing  by  the  fence  ahead, 
which  separated  me  from  what  appeared  to  be  a 
river;  and  I  knew  there  must  be  a  considerable 
drop  in  front  of  me.    They  held  their  hands  up  in 
warning  as  I  came  galloping  up;  I  took  my  foot 
out  of  the  stirrup  and  dropping  my  reins  gave  my- 
self up  for  lost,  but  in  spite  of  Havoc  slowing  up 
he  was  going  too  fast  to  stop  or  turn.    He  made  a 
magnificent  effort,  but  I  saw  the  water  twinkling 
below  me;  and  after  that  I  knew  no  more. 

When  I  came  to,  I  was  lying  on  a  box  bed  in  a 
cottage,  with  Peter  and  the  lady  who  had  held  the 
yellow  gate  kneeling  by  my  side. 

"I  think  you  are  mad  to  put  any  one  on  that 
horse  1"  I  heard  her  say  indignantly.  "You  know 
how  often  it  has  changed  hands;  and  you  yourself 
can  hardly  ride  it." 

Havoc  had  tried  to  scramble  down  the  bank, 
which  luckily  for  me  had  not  been  immediately 
[148] 


h 


ti 


'a 
H 

I 


J 

(■-IP 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

under  the  fence,  but  it  could  not  be  done,  so  we  took 
a  somersault  into  the  brook,  most  alarming  for  the 
people  in  the  ford  to  see.  However,  as  the  water 
was  deep  where  I  landed,  I  was  not  hurt,  but  had 
fainted  from  fear  and  exhaustion. 

Peter's  misery  was  profound;  ice-white  and  in  an 
agony  of  fear,  he  was  warming  my  feet  with  both  his 
hands  while  I  watched  him  quietly.  I  was  taken 
home  in  a  brougham  by  my  kind  friend,  who  turned 
out  to  be  Mrs.  Bunbury,  a  sister  of  John  Watson, 
the  Master  of  the  Meath  hounds,  and  the  daughter 
of  old  Mr.  Watson,  the  Master  of  the  Carlow  and 
the  finest  rider  to  hounds  in  England. 

This  was  how  Peter  and  I  first  came  really  to 
krow  each  other;  and  after  that  it  was  only  a 
question  of  time  when  our  friendship  developed  into 
a  serious  love-affair.  I  stayed  with  Mrs.  Bunbury 
in  the  Grafton  country  that  winter  for  several 
weeks  and  was  mounted  by  every  one. 

As  Peter  was  a  kind  of  hero  in  the  huntin'x  field 
and  had  never  been  known  to  mount  a  W(  lan,  I 
was  the  object  of  much  jealousy.  The  first  scene 
in  my  life  occurred  at  Brackley,  where  he  and  a 
friend  of  his,  called  Hatfield  Harter,  shared  a 
hunting  box  together. 

[149] 


il 


s 


1  ) 


8 


11 1 
II 


1 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

There  was  a  lady  of  charm  and  beauty  in  the 
vicinity  who  went  by  the  name  of  Airs.  Bo.  They 
said  she  had  gone  well  to  hounds  in  her  youth,  but 
I  had  never  observed  her  jump  a  twig.  She  often 
joined  us  when  Peter  and  I  were  changing  horses 
and  once  or  twice  had  ridden  home  with  us.  Peter 
did  not  appear  to  like  her  much,  but  I  was  too  busy 
to  notice  this  one  way  or  the  other.  One  day  I  said 
to  him  I  thought  he  was  rather  snubby  to  her  and 
added: 

"After  all,  she  must  have  been  a  very  pretty 
woman  when  she  was  young  and  I  don't  think  it's 
nice  of  you  to  show  such  irritation  when  she  joins 
us." 

Petee:  "Do  you  call  her  old?" 

Mahgot:  "Well,  oldish  I  should  say.  She  must 
be  over  thirty,  isn't  she?" 

Petee:  "Do  you  call  that  old?" 

Maegot:  "I  don't  know!  How  old  are  you, 
Peter?" 

Petee:  "I  shan't  tell  you." 

One  day  I  rode  back  from  hunting,  having  got 

wet  to  the  skin.    I  had  left  the  Bunbury  brougham 

in  Peter's  stables  but  I  did  not  like  to  go  back  in 

wet  clothes;  so,  after  seeing  my  horse  comfortably 

[150] 


1 
■* 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

gruelled,  I  walked  up  to  the  charming  lady's  house 
to  borrow  dry  clothes.  She  was  out,  but  her  maid 
gave  me  a  coat  and  skirt,  which — though  much  too 
big — served  my  purpose. 

After  having  tea  with  Peter,  who  was  ill  in  bed, 
I  drove  up  to  thank  the  lady  for  her  clothes.  She 
was  lying  on  a  long,  thickly  pillowed  couch,  smok- 
ing a  cigarette  in  a  boudoir  that  smelt  of  violets. 
She  greeted  me  coldly;  and  I  was  just  going  away 
when  she  threw  her  cigarette  into  the  fire  and,  sud- 
denly sitting  very  erect,  said : 

"Wait!    I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

I  saw  by  the  expression  on  her  face  that  I  had 
no  chance  of  getting  away,  though  I  was  tired  and 
felt  at  a  strange  disadvantage  in  my  flowing  skirts. 

Mrs.  Bo:  "Does  it  not  strike  you  that  going  to 
tea  with  a  man  who  is  in  bed  is  a  thing  no  one  can 
do?" 

Mabgot:  "Going  to  see  a  man  who  is  ill?  No, 
certainly  not!" 

Mrs.  Bo:  Well,  then  let  me  tell  you  for  your  own 
information  how  it  will  strike  other  people.  I  am 
a  much  older  woman  than  you  and  I  warn  you,  you 
can't  go  on  doing  this  sort  of  thing!    Why  should 

[151] 


(  :  " 


4' 


MARGOT  ASQUITII 

you  come  down  here  among  all  of  us  who  are 
friends  and  make  mischief  and  create  talk?" 
I  felt  chilled  to  the  bone  and,  getting  up,  said: 
"I  think  I  had  better  leave  you  now,  as  I  am  tired 
and  you  are  angry." 

Mrs.  Bo  {stamling  up  and  coming  very  close  to 
me) :  "Do  you  not  know  that  I  would  nurse  Peter 
Flower  through  yellow  fever!  But,  though  I  have 
lived  next  door  to  him  these  last  three  years,  I  would 
never  dream  of  doing  what  you  have  done  to-day." 
The  expression  on  her  face  was  so  intense  that  I 
felt  Sony  for  her  and  said  as  gently  as  I  could : 

"I  do  not  see  why  you  shouldn't!  Especially  if 
you  are  all  such  friends  down  here  as  you  say  you 
are.  However,  every  one  has  a  different  idea  of 
what  is  right  and  wrong.  .  .  .  I  must  go  now!" 
I  was  determined  not  to  stay  a  moment  longer 
and  walked  to  the  door,  but  she  had  lost  her  head 
and  said  in  a  hard,  bitter  voice: 

"You  say  every  one  has  a  different  idea  of  right 
and  wrong,  but  I  sliould  say  you  have  none!" 
At  this  I  lei  t  the  room. 

When  I  told  Mrs.  Bunbury  what  had  happened, 
all  she  said  was: 
[152] 


m 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"Call     She's  jealous!     Before  you  came  down 
here,  Peter  Flower  was  in  love  with  her." 

This  was  a  great  shock  to  me  and  I  determined 
I  would  leave  the  Grafton  country,  as  I  had  already 
been  away  far  too  long  from  my  own  people ;  so  I 
wrote  to  Peter  saying  I  was  sorry  not  to  say  good- 
bye to  him,  but  that  I  had  to  go  home.  The  next 
day  was  Sunday.  I  got  my  usual  love-letter  from 
Peter— who,  whether  I  saw  him  or  not,  wrote  daily 
— telling  me  that  his  temperature  had  gone  up  again 
and  that  he  would  give  me  his  two  best  horses  on 
Monday,  as  he  was  not  allowed  to  leave  his  room. 
After  we  had  finished  lunch,  Peter  turned  up,  look- 
ing ill  and  furious.  Mrs.  Bunbury  greeted  him 
sweetly  and  said: 

"You  ought  to  be  in  bed,  you  know;  but,  since 
you  are  here,  I'll  leave  Margot  to  look  after  you 
while  Jacky  and  I  go  round  the  stables." 

When  we  were  left  to  ourselves,  Peter,  looking 
at  me,  said: 

"Well!  I've  got  your  letter!  What  is  all  this 
about?  Don't  you  know  there  are  two  horses 
coming  over  from  Ireland  this  week  which  I  want 
you  particularly  to  ride  for  me?" 

I  saw  that  he  was  thoroughly  upset  and  told  him 

[153] 


It 


i* 


i-£i 


MARGOT  ASQUITII 

that  I  was  goin^  home,  as  I  had  been  already  too 
long  away. 

"Have  your  people  written  to  you  ?"  he  said. 

Maroot:  "They  always  write.     .     .     ." 

Petkr  {seeing  the  examon):  "What's  wrong?" 

Mahgot:  "What  do  you  mean?" 

Peter:  "You  know  (juite  well  that  no  one  has 
asked  you  to  go  home.  Something  has  happened ; 
some  one  has  said  something  to  you;  you've  been 
put  out.  After  all  it  was  only  yesterday  that  we 
were  discussing  every  meet;  and  you  promised  to 
give  me  a  lurcher.  Wiiat  has  happened  since  to 
change  you?" 

Margot:  "Oh,  what  does  it  matter?  I  can  always 
come  down  here  again  later  on." 

Peter:  "How  wanting  in  candour  you  arel  You 
are  not  a  bit  like  what  1  thought  you  were!" 

Margot  («Dfc//;/) ;  "No.     .     .     .?" 

Peter:  "Not  a  bit!  You  are  a  regular  woman. 
I  thought  differently  of  you  somehow !" 

Mar(!<)t:  "You  thoui^ht  I  was  a  dog-fancier  or 
a  rough-rider,  did  you,  witli  a  good  thick  skin?" 

Peter:  "I  fail  to  understand  you!  Are  you  al- 
luding to  the  manners  of  my  horses?" 

Margot:  "No,  to  your  friends." 
[154] 


smm 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Peter:  "Ah!  Ah!  Xoim  //  Hommcs/  .  .  . 
How  can  you  ho  so  childish!  What  did  Mrs.  Bo 
say  to  you .'" 

Mahoot:  "(Jh,  .spare  me  from  going  into  your 
friends'  affairs!" 

Pktek  (flushed  with  tcmjH'r.  but  irt/ing  to  con- 
trol himHiif) :  "What  does  it  matter  what  an  old 
woman  says  whose  nose  has  been  put  out  of  joint 
in  thr'  hunting-field?" 

Mar(}()t:  "You  told  me  she  was  young." 

Peter:  "What  an  awful  lie!  You  said  she  was 
pretty  and  I  disagreed  with  you."  Silence.  "What 
did  she  say  to  you?  I  tell  you  she  is  jealous  of  you 
in  the  hunting-field!" 

Mahoot:  "No,  she's  not;  she's  jealous  of  me  in 
your  bedroom  and  says  I  don't  know  right  from 
wrong." 

Peter  {atartled  at  first  and  then  bursting  out 
laugliing) :  "There's  nothing  very  original  about 
that!" 

M ARGOT  {indignuntly) :  "Do  you  mean  to  say 
that  it's  a  platitude?  And  that  I  dan't  know  right 
from  wrong?" 

Peit,h  (taking  mjf  hands  and  kissing  them  ivith 
a  sigh  of  inUn^c  relief) :  "1  wonder' 

[155] 


il 


Idi 


MAlKiOT  ASQUITH 

Maeoot  (gcttinf/up):  "Well,  after  that,  noth- 
ing will  induce  me  to  stay  <lown  here  or  ride  any  of 
your  horses  ever  again!  No  regiment  of  soldiers 
will  keep  me!" 

Pktf.e:  "Really,  darling,  how  can  you  be  so  fool- 
ish! Who  would  ever  think  it  wrong  to  go  and  see 
a  pof»r  devil  ill  in  bed!  You  had  to  ride  my  horse 
back  to  its  stable  and  it  was  your  duty  to  come  and 
ask  after  me  and  thank  me  for  all  my  kindness  to 
you  and  the  good  horses  I've  put  you  on!" 

Margot:  "Evidently  in  tliis  country  1  am  not 
wanted,  Mrs.  Bo  said  so;  and  you  ought  to  have 
warned  me  you  were  in  love  with  her.  You  said  I 
was  not  the  woman  you  thought  I  was:  well,  I  can 
say  the  same  of  you!" 

At  this  Teter  got  up  and  all  his  laughter  dis- 
appeared. 

"Do  you  mean  what  you  say?    Is  this  the  im- 
pression you  got  from  talking  to  Mrs.  Bo?" 
Masoot:  "Yes." 

Peter:  "In  that  case  I  will  go  and  see  her  and 
ask  her  which  of  the  two  of  you  is  lying!  If  it's 
you,  you  needn't  bother  yourself  to  leave  this  coun- 
try, for  I  shall  sell  my  horses.  ...  I  wish  to 
God  I  had  never  met  you!" 
[156] 


■1: 


^"^^''lirMirtiiiMlllimi 


MJ^i 


AN  A!^T<)MI()(;KAPnV 

I  felt  very  nncomfortahle  and  unhappy,  as  in  my 
heart  I  knew  that  Mrs.  \h,  had  never  .-lid  IVter 
was  in  love  with  h«r;  slie  had  not  alhided  f.>  his 
feelin/,'s  for  her  at  all.  I  got  up  to  stoj)  hint  leaving 
the  room  anci  put  myself  in  frori^  of  the  (J(M)r. 

M argot:  "H'.illy,  why  mnke  scenes!  There  is 
nothing  so  tirinjr;  .,rid  you  know  cpiite  well  you  are 
ill  and  ought  to  go  to  hed.  Is  there  any  ohject  in 
going  roinid  the  '-ountry  discussing  me?" 

PK-reK:  "Just  go  away,  will  you?  I'm  ill  and 
want  to  get  oH". 

I  did  not  move  I  saw  he  was  white  with  rage. 
The  idea  of  g-ojntr  round  Ih.;  cf)untry  talking  ahout 
me  was  more  than  he  could  bear;  so  I  said,  trying 
to  mollify  him: 

"If  you  want  to  discuss  me,  I  am  always  v  .[finp 
til  listen;  there  is  nothing  I  enjoy  .so  much  .-,  ;  vk- 
ing  ahout  myself." 

It  was  too  late.    All  he  .said  to  me  was. 

"Do  you  mind  leaving  that  door?  You  tav  r.. 
and  it's  getting  dark." 

Marqot:  "I  will  let  you  go,  hut  promise  me  you 
won't  go  to  Mrs.  Bo  to-day;  or,  if  you  do.  tell  me 
what  you  are  going  to  say  to  her  first." 

Peteh:  "You've  never  told  me  yet  what  she  said 

[157] 


•- i 


H 


I 


i  t 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

to  you,  except  that  I  was  in  love  with  her,  so  why 
should  I  tell  you  what  I  propose  saying  to  her!  For 
once  you  cannot  have  it  all  your  own  way.    You  are 
so  spoilt  since  you've  been  down  here  that    .    .    ." 
I  flung  the  door  wide  open  and,  before  he  could 
finish  his  sentence,  ran  up  to  my  room. 
• 
Peter  was  curiously  upsetting  to  the  feminine 
sense;  he  wanted  to  conceal  it  and  to  expose  it  at 
the  same  time,  under  the  impression  it  might  arouse 
my  jealousy.    He  was  si)ecially  angry  with  me  for 
dancing  with  King  Edward,  then  the  Prince  of 
Wales.    I  told  him  that  if  he  would  learn  to  waltz 
instead  of  prance  I  would  dance  with  him,  but  till 
he  did  I  should  choose  my  own  partners.     Over 
this  we  had  a  great  row;  and,  after  sitting  out  two 
uances  with  the  Prince,  I  put  on  my  cloak  and 
walked  round  to  40  Grosvenor  S  :uare  without  say- 
ing gocxl  night  to  Peter.     I  was  in  my  dressing- 
gown,  with  my  hair— my  one  claim  to  beauty- 
standing  out  all  round  my  head,  when  I  heard  a 
noise  in  the  street  and,  looking  down,  I  saw  Peter 
standing  on  the  wall  of  our  porch  gazing  across  an 
angle  of  the  area  into  the  open  window  of  our 
library,  contemplating,  I  presumed,  jumping  into 
[158] 


i'lii 


rf 


I 


fs,A 


■PFl!>«P 


■PP 


■OHf 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
it;  I  raced  downstairs  to  stop  this  dangerous  folly, 
but  I  was  too  late  and,  as  I  opened  the  library- 
door,  he  had  given  a  cat-like  spring,  knocking  a 
flower-pot  down  into  the  area,  and  was  by  my  side. 
I  lit  two  candles  on  the  writing-table  and  scolded 
him  for  his  recklessness.    He  told  me  had  made  a 
great  deal  of  money  by  jumping  from  a  stand  on 
to  tables  and  things  and  once  he  had  won  £500  by 
jumping  on  to  a  mantelpiece  when  the  fire  was 
burning.     As  we  were  talking  I  heard  voices  in 
the  area;  Peter,  with  the  instinct  of  a  burglar,  in- 
stantly lay  flat  on  the  floor  behind  the  sofa,  his 
head  under  the  valance  of  the  chintz,  and  I  remained 
at  tlie  writing-table,  smoking  my  cigarette;  this 
was  all  done  in  a  second.     The  door  opened;  I 
looked  round  and  was  blinded  by  the  blaze  of  a 
bull's-eye  lantern.    When  it  was  removed  from  my 
face,  I  saw  two  policemen,  an  inspector  and  my 
father's  servant.     I  got  up  slowly  and,  with  my 
head  in  the  air,  sat  upon  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  block- 
ing the  only  possibility  of  Peter's  full  length  being 
seen. 

Margot  {mth  great  dignity) :  "Is  this  a  prac- 
tical joke?" 

Inspector  (coolli/):  "Not  at  all,  madam,  but  it 

[159] 


mmmmmm 


'^l»  >UL>»mut^  .-.JUj.^,.  gg 


% 
r 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

is  only  right  to  tell  you  a  hansom  cabman  informed 
us  that,  as  he  was  passi.jg  this  house  a  few  minutes 
ago,  he  saw  a  man  jump  into  that  window." 

He  walked  away  from  me  and,  holding  his  lan- 
tern over  the  area,  peered  down  and  saw  the  broken 
flower-pot.  I  knew  lying  was  more  than  useless 
and,  as  the  truth  had  always  served  me  well,  I  said, 
giving  my  father's  servant,  who  looked  sleepy,  a 
heavy  kick  on  the  instep: 

"That  is  quite  true;  a  friend  of  mine  did  jump 
in  at  that  window,  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ago; 
but  (looking  down  xvith  a  sweet  and  modest  smile) 
he  was  not  a  burglar.     .     .     ." 

Henry  IIiix  (/«;/  father's  servant):  "TTow 
often  I've  told  you,  miss,  that,  as  long  as  Master 
Edward  loses  his  latch-keys,  there  is  nothing  to  be 
done  and  something  is  bound  to  happen!  One  day 
he  will  not  only  lose  the  lat^h-key,  but  his  life." 

Inspector:  "I'm  sorry  to  have  frightened  you, 
madam,  I  will  now  take  down  your  names.    .    ,    ." 

M.UIGOT  (an.riomli/) :  "Oh,  I  see,  you  have  to 
report  it  in  the  police  news,  have  you?  Has  the 
cabman  given  you  his  name?  He  ought  to  be  re- 
warded, he  might  have  saved  us  all!" 

I  felt  that  I  could  have  strangled  the  cabman, 
[160] 


Ml 


mmas:TTrB<r^ 


"      'I.I  AlMTiiVI 

w.i,r«.  AM,,,,  K  ,^  n.rios.  ■.MRHri:n  I'u'hV 


!!•!   :.i!!  ir  •  iHKRii  sT\ri;:>.iHN,  »  ,),«, 


^ 


( 


if 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

but.  collecting  myself,  took  one  candle  off  the  writ- 
mg-tahlc  and,  !,lowing  the  other  out,  led  the  way  to 
the  hhrary-door,  saying  slowly: 

"Margaret   .    .    .    Emma'.    .    .  Alice  Tennant. 
Uo  1  have  to  add  my  occupation?" 

IxsPECTou  {Inmb,  xcriting  in  a  .small  notebook)  • 
^  o,  thank  you."    ( Tumincj  to  Hill)  "Your  name 
please.  " 

My  father's  servant  was  thoroughly  roused  and 
I  regrette<l  n.y  kick  when  in  a  voice  of  thunder  he 
said: 

"Henry  Hr stings  Applehy  Hill." 
I  felt  quite  sure  that  m/  father  would  appear 
over  the  top  of  the  stair  and  then  all  would  he 
over;  but,  by  the  fortune  that  follows  the  brave 
perfect  sdence  reigned  throughout  the  house      I 
walked  slowly  away,  while  Hill  led  the  three  police- 
men into  the  hall.     When  the  front  door  had  been 
harred  and  bolted,  I  ran  down  the  back  stairs  and 
said,  smiling  brightly: 

"I  shall  tell  mv  father  all  about  this!  You  did 
very  well;  good  night.  Hill." 

^^'hen  the  coast  was  clear,  I  returned  to  the 
hbrary  with  n.y  h.art  beating  and  shut  the  door. 
1  eter  had  disentangled  himself  from  the  sofa  and 

[161] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

was  taking  fluff  off  his  coat  with  an  air  of  happy 
disengagement;  I  told  him  with  emphasis  that  I 
was  done  for,  that  my  name  would  he  ringing  in 
the  police  news  next  day  and  that  I  was  cjuite  sure 
hy  the  inspector's  face  that  he  knew  exactly  what 
had  happened;  that  all  this  came  from  Peter's  in- 
fernal temper,  idiotic  jealousy  and  complete  want 
of  self-control.    Agitated  and  elwiuent,  I  was  good 
for  another  ten  minutes'  ahuse;  hut  he  interrupted 
me  by  saying,  in  his  most  caressing  manner: 

"The  inspector  is  all  right,  my  dear!  He  is  a 
friend  of  mine!  I  wouldn't  have  missed  this  for  the 
whole  world:  you  were  magnificent!  Which  shall 
we  reward,  the  poHcemaii,  the  caJmian  or  HiJI?" 

Makgot:  "Don't  be  ridiculous!  What  do  you 
propose  doing?" 

Peter  {trying  to  kiss  rni/  hands  •which  I  luul  pur- 
posely put  behind  mi/  back) :  "I  propose  having  a 
chat  with  Inspector  Wood  and  then  with  Hastings 
Appleby." 

Mabgot:  "How  do  you  know  Inspector  Wood, 
as  you  call  him?" 

Peter:  "He  did  a  friend  of  mine  a  very  good 
turn  once." 

Margot:  "What  sort  of  turn?" 
[162] 


N 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Peter:  "Sugar  Candy  insulted  nie  at  the  Turf 
and  I  was  knocking  him  into  a  jelly  in  Brick  Street, 
when  Wood  intervened  and  saved  his  life.  I  can 
assure  you  he  would  do  anything  in  the  world  for 
me  and  I'll  niake  it  all  right!  He  shall  have  a  hand- 
some present." 

Mar(.ot:  "How  vulgar  1  Having  a  brawl  in 
Brick  Street!  How  did  you  come  to  be  in  the 
East-end  ?" 

Peter:  "Kast-end!  Why,  it's  next  to  Down 
Street,  out  of  Pieeadilly." 

M argot:  "It's  very  wrong  to  bribe  the  police, 
Peter!" 

Peter:  "I'm  not  going  to  bribe  him,  governess! 
I'm  going  to  give  him  my  Airedale  terrier." 

Maroot:  "What!  That  brute  that  killed  the 
lady's  lap-dog?" 

Peter:  "The  very  same!" 

Mahqot:  "God  help  poor  Wood!" 

Peter  was  so  elated  with  this  shattering  escapade 
that  a  week  after— on  the  occasion  of  another  row, 
in  which  I  pointed  out  that  he  was  the  most  selfish 
man  in  the  world-  I  lieard  him  whistling  under  my 
bedroom  window  at  midnight.  Afraid  lest  he  should 
wake  my  parents,  I  ran  down  in  my  dressing-gown 

[IG3] 


MARGOT  ASQtTITII 

to  open  the  front  tloor.  but  nothing  would  induce 
the  chain  to  move.  It  was  a  newly  acquired  habit 
of  the  servants,  started  by  Henry  Hill  from  the 
night  he  had  barred  out  the  police.  Being  a  hope- 
less mechanic  and  particularly  weak  in  my  fingers, 
I  gave  it  up  an<I  went  to  the  open  window  in  the 
librar>.  I  begged  him  to  go  away,  as  nothing  would 
induce  me  to  forgive  him,  and  I  told  him  that  my 
papa  had  only  just  retired  to  bed. 

Peter,  unmoved,  ordered  me  to  take  the  flower- 
pots off  the  window-siU,  or  he  would  knock  them 
down  and  make  a  horrible  noise,  which  would  wake 
the  whole  house.  After  1  had  refused  to  do  th  ,, 
he  said  he  would  very  likely  break  his  neck  when  he 
jumped,  as  clearing  the  pots  would  mean  hitting 
his  head  against  the  window  frame.  Fearing  an 
explosion  of  temper,  I  weakly  removed  the  flower- 
pots and  watched  his  acrobatic  feat  with  delight. 

We  had  not  been  talking  on  the  sofa  for  more 
than  five  minutes  when  I  heard  .i  shuffle  of  feet 
outside  the  library-door.  I  got  up  with  lightning 
rapidity  and  put  out  the  two  candles  on  the  writing- 
table  with  the  palms  of  my  hands,  returning  noise- 
lessly to  Peter's  side  on  the  sofa,  where  we  sat  in 
black  darkness.  The  door  opened  and  my  father 
[1G4] 


t-  w 


AN  AUTOIUOGRAPHV 

came  in  holdin^r  „  Ik.,|,.,„„„  ,.jin,lle  in  his  hand;  he 
proceeded  to  walk  stealthily  r<.nn(!  the  r.K.ni,  look- 
ing' at  his  pictures.     The  sot'u  on  which  we  were 
sitting  was  in  the  window  and  had  nothin^r  hehi,,,] 
it  hut  the  curtains.     Ih  held  his  candle  hi^^h  and 
close  to  every  picture  iu  turn  and,  puttin-  his  head 
forward,  scanned  them  uith  tenderness  and  love. 
I  saw  I»eter's  idiotic  hat  and  stick  under  the  (Jains- 
horou^di  and  could  not  resist  ruid^rin^  him  as  "The 
Ladies  Krne  and  Dillon"  were  slowly  ajiproached. 
A  candle  held  near  one's  face  is  the  most  i)lindin!r 
of  all   things   and,    after   inspecting   the   sloping 
shoulders  and  anicmie  features  of  the  Gainshorough 
ladies,  my  father,  (piietly  humming  to  himself,  re- 
turned to  his  hed. 


Things  did  not  always  go  so  smoothly  with  us. 
One  night  Peter  suggested  that  I  should  walk  away 
with  him  from  the  hall  and  try  a-i  Ann  rican  trotter 
which  had  heen  lent  to  hin.  hy  a  friend.  As  it  was 
a  glorious  night,  1  th..ught  it  might  he  rather  fun, 
so  we  walked  down  (irosvenor  Street  into  Park 
Lane;  and  there  stood  the  huggy  under  a  lamp. 
American  trotters  always  appear  to  he  misshapen; 

[wry] 


'  ; 


'I, 


i  It 

I;  r 
( 

r  ' 

li,  i 


I 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

they  are  like  coloured  prints  that  are  not  quite  in 
drawing  and  have  never  attracted  me. 

After  We  hud  placed  ourselves  firmly  in  the 
rickety  buggy,  Peter  said  to  the  man  as  he  took  the 
reins: 

"J At  him  go,  please!" 

And  go  he  did,  with  a  curious  rapid,  swaying 
waddle.  There  was  no  traffic  and  we  turned  into 
the  Kdgware  Road  t  wards  Ilendqn  at  a  great 
pace,  but  Peter  was  a  bar!  driver  and  after  a  little 
time  said  his  arms  ached  and  he  thought  it  was  time 
the  "damned'  horsj  was  made  to  stop. 

"I'm  told  the  only  way  to  stop  an  American 
trotter,"  said  he,  "is  to  hit  him  over  the  head." 

At  this  I  took  the  whip  out  of  the  socket  and 
threw  it  into  the  road. 

Peter,  maddened  by  my  action,  sho\  ed  the  reins 
into  my  hands,  saying  he  would  jump  out.  I  did 
not  take  the  smallest  notice  of  this  threat,  but 
slackened  the  reins,  after  which  we  went  quite 
slowly.  I  need  hardly  say  Peter  did  not  jump  out, 
but  suggested  with  severity  that  we  should  go  back 
and  l(X)k  for  the  whip. 

This  was  the  last  thing  I  intended  to  do,  so  when 
we  turned  I  leant  back  in  my  seat  and  tugged  at  the 
[1661 


I 


AX  AUTOHIOCiRAPHY 


■1 
f 


tn.  ter  with  all  my  inijfht.  nrul  wc  flew  home  with- 
(n,\   ittering  a  sinj^le  word. 

I  was  an  excellent  driver,  hut  that  night  had 
taxfd  all  my  powers  and,  when  we  pulled  up  at  the 
corner  of  (irosvenor  Sciuare,  I  aehed  in  every  limb. 
We  were  not  in  the  habit  of  arriving  together  at 
the  front  door;  and  after  he  had  handed  me  down 
to  the  pavement  I  felt  rather  awkward :  I  had  no 
desire  to  break  the  silence,  but  neither  did  i  want  to 
take  away  Peter's  coat,  which  I  was  wearing,  so  I 
said  tentatively: 

"Shall  I  give  you  your  covert -coat?" 

Petkk:  "Don't  be  childish!  I  low  can  you  walk 
back  to  the  front  door  in  your  bail-dress?  If  any 
one  happened  to  be  looking  out  of  the  window,  what 
vvould  they  think?" 

This  was  really  more  than  I  could  bear.  I 
wrenched  off  his  coat  and  placing  it  tiriuly  on  his 
arm,  said : 

"Most  people,  if  they  are  sensible,  are  sound 
asleep  at  this  time  of  the  night,  but  1  thank  you  all 
the  same  for  your  consideration." 

We  turned  testily  away  from  each  other  and  I 
walked  home  alone.  When  I  reached  our  front 
door  my  father  opened  it  and,  seeing  me  in  my 


r 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No   2) 


^      -APPLIED    IIVHGE      Ir 


1653    Cost    Mo.n    Street 

Rochester,   Ne*   Yori,         14609       uSA 

(716)    482  -  0300  -  Phone 

(716)   288  -  5989  -  To, 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

white  tulle  dress,  was  beside  himself  with  rage  He 
asked  me  if  I  would  kindly  explain  what  I .  .as 
domg,  walking  in  the  streets  in  my  ball-dress  at  two 
m  the  moraing.  I  told  him  exactly  what  had  hap- 
pened and  warned  him  soothingly  never  to  buy  an 
American  trotter;  he  told  me  that  mv  reputation 
was  ruined,  that  his  was  also  and  that  my  behaviour 
would  kill  my  mother;  I  put  my  arms  round  his 

neck,toldhimsoothinglythatIhadnotreallyenjoyed 
myself  at  all  and  promised  him  that  I  would  neVer 
do  it  again.  By  this  time  my  mother  had  come  out  of 
her  bedroom  and  was  leaning  over  the  staircase  in 
her  dressmg-gown.  She  said  in  a  pleading  voice: 

"Pray  do  not  agitate  yourself,  Charlie.  You've 
done  a  very  wrong  action,  Margot!  You  really 
ought  to  have  more  consideration  for  your  father: 
no  one  knows  how  impressionable  he  is. 
Please  tell  Mr.  Flower  that  we  do  not  approve  of 
him  at  all  I    .    .    ." 

Margot:  "You  are  absolutely  right,  dear 
mamma,  and  that  is  exactly  what  I  have  said  to  him 
more  than  once.  But  you  need  not  worry,  for  no 
one  saw  us.  Let's  go  to  bed,  darling,  I'm  dog- 
tired!" 


ri68] 


!!■ 


.K^iii ! 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Peter  was  thoroughly  inconsequent  about  money 
and  a  great  gambler;  he  told  me  one  day  in  sorrow 
that  his  only  chance  of  economising  was  to  sell  his 
horses  and  go  to  India  to  shoot  big  game,  inci- 
dentally escaping  his  creditors. 

When  Peter  went  to  ludia  I  was  very  unhappy, 
but  to  please  my  people  I  told  them  I  would  say 
good-bye  and  not  write  to  ..im  for  a  year,  a  promise 
which  was  faithfully  kept. 

While  he  was  away,  a  young  man  of  rank  and 
fortune  fell  in  love  with  me  out  hunting.    He  never 
proposed,  he  only  declared  himself.     I  liked  him 
particularly,  but  his  attention  sat  lightly  on  me; 
this  rather  nettled  him  and  he  told  me  one  day  rid - 
mg  home  in  the  dark,  that  he  was  sure  I  must  be 
in  love  with  somebody  else.    I  said  that  it  did  not 
at  all  follow  and  that,  if  he  were  wise  he  would  stop 
talking  about  love  and  go  and  buy  himself  some 
good  horses  for  Leicestershire,  where  I  was  going 
in  a  week  to  hunt  with  Lord  lAIanners.    We  were 
staying    together    at    Cholmondeley    Castle,    in 
Cheshire,  with  my  beloved  friend,  Winifred  Chol- 
mondele5%*  then  Lady  Rocksavaee. 

3ry  new  young  man  took  my  advice  and  went  up 

*The  Marcliioness  of  Cholmondeley. 

[169] 


W7^- 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

to  London,  promising  he  would  lend  me  "two  of 
the  best  that  money  could  buy"  to  take  to  Melton, 
where  he  proposed  shortly  to  follow  me. 

When  he  arrived  at  Tattersalls  there  were  S3veral 
studs  of  well-known  horses  being  sold:  Jack 
Trotter's,  Sir  William  Eden's  and  Lord  Lons- 
dale's. Among  the  latter  was  a  famous  hunter, 
called  Jack  Madden,  which  had  once  belonged  to 
Peter  Flower;  and  m>  friend  determined  he  would 
buy  it  for  me.    Some  one  said  to  him: 

"I  don't  advise  you  to  buy  that  horse,  as  you 
won't  be  able  to  ride  it!" 

(The  fellow  who  related  this  to  me  added,  "As 
you  know.  Miss  Tennant,  this  is  the  only  certain 
way  by  which  you  can  sell  any  horse.") 
Another  man  said: 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,  the  horse  is  ah  right; 
when  it  belonged  to  Flower  I  saw  Miss  Margot 
going  like  a  bird  on  it.     .     .     ." 

My  Friend:  "Did  Miss  Tennant  ride  Flower's 
horses?" 

At  this  the  other  fellow  said: 

"Why,  my  dear  man,  where  have  you  lived ! 

Some  months  after  I  had  ridden  Jack  Madden 
[170] 


S'    ! 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

and  my  own  horses  over  high  Leicestershire,  my 
friend  came  to  s*;e  me  and  asked  me  to  swear  on 
my  Bible  oath  that  I  would  not  give  him  away  over 
a  secret  which  he  intended  to  tell  me. 

After  I  had  taken  my  solemn  oath  he  said: 

"Your  friend  Peter  Flower  in  India  was  going 
to  be  put  in  the  bankruptcy  court  and  turned  out  of 
every  club  in  London;  so  I  went  to  Sam  Lewis  and 
paid  his  debt,  but  I  don't  want  him  to  know  about 
it  and  he  never  need,  unless  you  tell  him." 

Maegot:  "What  does  he  owe?  And  whom  does 
he  owe  it  to?" 

My  Friend:  "He  owes  ten  thousand  pounds,  but 
I'm  not  at  liberty  to  tell  you  who  it's  to;  he  is  a 
friend  of  mine  and  a  very  good  fellow.  I  can  assure 
you  that  he  has  waited  longer  than  most  people 
would  for  Flower  to  pay  him  and  1  think  he's  done 
the  right  thing." 

Margot:  "Is  Peter  Flower  a  friend  of  yours?" 

My  Friend:  "I  don't  know  him  by  sight  and 
have  never  spoken  to  him  in  my  life,  but  he's  the 
man  you're  in  love  with  and  that  is  enough  for  me." 
• 

When  the  year  was  up  and  Peter — for  all  I  knew 
—was  still  in  India,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that, 

[m] 


itwr^m^ 


n 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

come  what  might,  I  would  never,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances,  renew  my  relations  with  him. 

That  winter  I  was  staying  with  the  Manners, 
as  usual,  and  finding  myself  late  for  a  near  meet  cut 
across  country.  Larking  is  always  a  stupid  thing 
to  do;  horses  that  have  never  put  a  foot  wrong 
generally  refuse  the  smallest  fence  and  rather  than 
upset  th  -n  at  the  beginning  of  the  day  you  end  by 
gomg  through  the  gate,  which  you  had  better  have 
done  at  first. 

I  had  a  mare  called  Molly  Bawn,  given  to  me  hy 
my  fiance,  who  was  the  finest  timber-jumper  in 
Leicestershire,  and,  seeing  the  people  at  the  meet 
watchmgme  as  I  approached,  I  could  not  resist,  out 
of  pure  swagger,  jumping  an  enormous  gate      I 
said  to  myself  how  disgusted  Peter  would  have  been 
at  my  vulgarity !    But  at  the  same  time  it  put  me  in 
good  spirits.    Something,  however,  made  me  turn 
round;  1  saw  a  man  behind  me,  jumping  the  fence 
beside  my  gate;  and  there  was  Peter  Flower'    He 
was  m  tearing  spirits  and  told  me  with  eagerness 
how  completely  he  had  turned  over  a  new  leaf  and 
never   .itended  doing  this,  that  or  the  other  again 
as  far  the  most  wonderful  thing  had  happened  to 
him  that  ever  happened  to  any  one 
[172] 


AX  AIJTOIUOGUAPHV 

"I'm  under  a  lucky  .star.  Margie!    By  heavens  I 
am!    And  the  j„y  of  seeing  y..u  is  so  yrait  that  I 
won't  alhide  to  the  gate,  or  Molly  Hawn.  or  you,  or 
any  thing  ugly!    Let  us  enjoy  ourselves  for  once; 
and  for  God  s  sake  don't  sr.,ld  me.    Are  you  glad 
to  see  me?   Let  me  look  at  you !    Which  doVou  love 
best.  Molly  Bawn  or  me  ?    Don't  answer  but  listen." 
He  then  proceeded  to  tell  me  how  his  debts  had 
been    paid    by    Sam    Lewis— the  money-lender- 
through  an  unknown  benefactor  and  how  he  had 
begged  Lewis  to  tell  who  it  was,  but  that  he  had 
refused,  hanng  taken  his  oath  never  to  reveal  the 
name.     My  heart  beat  and  I  said  a  remarkably 
stupid  thing: 

"How  wonderful!    But  you'll  have  to  pay  him 
back,  Peter,  won't  you?" 

Peter:  "Oh,  indeed!    Then  perhaps  you  can  tell 
me  who  it  is.     .     .     ." 

JMargot:  "How  can  I?" 

Peter:  "Do  you  know  who  it  is?" 

Margot:  "I  do  not." 

I  felt  the  cock  ought  to  h  ive  crowed,  but  I  said 
nothing;  and  Peter  was  so  busy  greeting  his  friends 
in  the  field  that  I  prayed  he  had  not  observed  my 
guilty  face. 

[173] 


pif.-'i  --• 


t    < 


II 


MARGOT  ASQUITII 

Some  days  after  this  there  was  a  race  meeting  at 
Leicester.  Lord  Lonsdale  took  a  special  at  Oak- 
ham for  the  occasion  and  the  Manners,  Peter  and 
I  all  went  to  the  races.  When  I  walked  into  the 
paddock,  I  saw  my  new  friend— the  owner  of  Jack 
Madden— talking'  to  the  Prince  of  Wales.  When 
we  joined  them,  the  Prince  suggested  that  we 
should  go  and  see  Mrs.  Langtry's  horse  start,  as  it 
was  a  great  rogue  and  difficult  to  mount. 

As  we  approached  the  Langtry  horse,  the  crowd 
made  way  for  us  and  I  found  my  friend  next  to  me; 
on  his  other  side  was  Peter  Flower  and  then  the 
Prince.    The  horse  had  his  eyes  bandaged  and  one 
of  his  forelegs  was  being  held  by  a  stable-boy. 
When  the  jockey  was  up  and  the  bandage  removed, 
it  jumped  into  the  air  and  gave  an  extend'^d  and 
violent  buck.    I  was  standing  so  near  that  I  felt 
the  draught  of  its  kick  on  my  hair.    A         s    ■  j 
friend  gave  a  slight  scream  and,  puttiii     i;         m 
round  me,  pulled  me  back  towards  him.    ,        ^s  is 
as  good  as  a  mile,  so  after  thanking  him  for  his 
protection  I  chatted  cheerfully  to  the  Prince  of 
M^'ales. 

There  is  nothing  so  tiring  as  racing  and  we  all  sat 
[174] 


■«;/.-^jTi 


AN  AUTOIIIOGUAPIIV 


i 


ICC  going  home  in 


in  perfect  sil 
evening. 

Neither  at  dinner  nor  after  had  I  any  nj)i)()r- 
tiinity  of  speaking  to  Peter,  but  I  observed  a  singu- 
larly impassive  expression  on  his  face.  The  next 
day— being  Sunday— I  asked  him  to  go  round  the 
stables  with  me  after  church;  he  refused,  so  '1  went 
alone.  After  dinner  I  tried  again  to  talk  to  him, 
but  he  would  not  answer;  he  did  not  look  angry, 
but  he  appeared  to  be  profoundly  sad,  which  de- 
pressed me.  He  told  Iloppy  Manners  he  was  not 
going  to  himt  that  week  as  he  feared  he  would  have 
to  be  in  London.  My  heart  sank.  We  all  went  to 
our  rooms  early  and  Peter  remained  downstairs 
reading.  As  he  never  read  in  winter  I  knew  there 
was  something  seriously  wrong,  so  I  went  down  in 
my  tea-gown  to  see  him.  It  was  nearly  midnight. 
The  room  was  empty  and  we  were  alone,  xle  never 
looked  up. 

Mak(.ot:  "Peter,  you've  not  spoken  to  me  once 
since  the  races.    What  can  have  happened?" 

Peter:  "1  would  rather  you  left  me,  please. 
.     .     .     Pray  go  back  to  your  room." 

Margot  i^tting  on  the  sofa  beside  him) :  "Won't 
you  speak  to  me  and  tell  me  all  about  it?" 

[175] 


"JI^Mr 


r< 


tin  ."i 


MAIKiOT  ASQUITH 

Peter  put  down  l.is  hook,  and  looking  .t  me 
st.iuiily,  said  very  slowly; 

"I'd  ratlicr  not  speak  to  a  liar!" 

I  «tcK,d  up  as  if  I  had  been  shot  and  said: 
How  dare  you  say  sueh  n  thing!" 
Pkter:  "You  lied  to  me." 
Margot:  "When?" 

Peteh:  "You  know  perfectly  well!     And  you 
aremwel    You  know  you  are.    Will  you  deny 

"Oh!  it's  this  that  worries  you.  is  it?"  said  I 
-eetly.    "What  would  you  say  if  I  told  you  I  was 

Peter:  "I  would  say  you  were  lying  again." 
Margot:  "Have  I  ever  lied  to  you.  Peter?" 

sMders)  You  have  lied  twiee.  so  I  presume  since 
I  v-^  been  away  you've  got  in.    the  habit  of  it  " 
Margot:  "Peter!" 

Peter:  "A  man  doesn't  scream  and  put  his  arm 
round  a  woman,  as  D— ly  did  at  the  races  to-day 
unless  he  ,s  in  love.    Will  you  tell  me  who  paid  my 
debt,  please?"  ^        ^ 

Margot:  "Xo,  I  won't." 

Peter:  "Was  it  D \yr' 

[170] 


Jg-.'^TJIP- 


i 


Jl 

t, 

: 

■r 

, 

B< 

^  r 

i 


h 


k 


"T"  Ml.V,    nil:   |-HI\,|    OF   HAIKS 


\^^ 


AN  AUT0BI(K;KAI>I[\ 

^^'^"'■"•^^  ••!  simn't  h-Il  yo...  I'm  net  S«,n  Le^vis- 
and.  .since  Vm  such  a  liur.  is  it  worth  while  nskinu 
me  these  stupid  (lutstions'" 

Peteh:  "Ah.  MarKot,  this  is  the  worst  bh,w  of 
niyhfe!  J  ee  you  arc  deceivinK  me.  1  know  who 
paid  my  debt  now." 

Mahgot:  "Then  why  ask  me?  .  .  ." 

PF:tH:  "\V:.en  I  went  to  India   •      id  never 

spoken  to  D \y  in  my  life.     \\.      J.^^M  he 

have  paid  my  debts  for  m,?  Vou  had  much  belter 
tell  me  the  simple  truth  and  get  it  over:  it's  .dl 
settled  and  you're  going  to  marry  him." 

Mahoot:  "Since  I  /e  got  into  the  way  of  lying, 
you  might  .pare  yourself  and  nie  these  vulgar 
questions." 

Peteh  (seizing  my  hands  in  anguish) :  "Say  you 
aren't  going  to  marry  him  .  .  .  tell  me.  tell 
me  it's  not  true." 

Mahgot:  "Why  sh  d  I?  He  has  never  asked 
me  to." 

After  this  the  question  of  matrimony  was  bound 
to  come  up  between  us.  The  first  time  it  was  talked 
of.  I  was  filled  with  anxiety.  It  seemed  to  put  a 
finish  to  the  radiance  of  our  friendship  and,  worse 

[177] 


1?  .1 


isiy-i^^^^'^-^^r^ 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

than  that,  it  brought  me  up  against  my  father,  who 
had  often  said  to  me : 

"You  will  never  marry  Flower;  you  must  marry 
your  superior." 

Peter  himself,  in  a  subconscious  way,  had  be- 
come aware  of  the  situation.  One  evening,  riding 
home,  he  said : 

"Margie,  do  you  see  that?" 

He  pointed  to  the  spire  of  the  Melton  Church 
and  added: 

"That  is  what  you  are  in  my  life.  I  am  not  worth 
the  button  on  your  boot!" 

To  which  I  replied : 

"I  would  not  say  that,  but  I  cannot  find  goodness 
for  two." 

I  was  profundly  unhappy.  To  live  for  ever  with 
a  man  who  was  incapable  of  loving  any  one  but 
himself  and  me,  who  was  without  any  kind  of  moral 
ambition  and  chronically  indifferent  to  politics  and 
religion,  was  a  nightmare. 

I  said  to  him : 

"I  will  marry  you  if  you  get  some  serious  occu- 
pation, Peter,  but  I  won't  marry  an  idle  man;  you 
think  of  nothing  but  yourself  and  me." 
[178] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Peter:  "What  in  the  name  of  goodness  would 
you  have  me  think  of?    Geogi-aphy?" 

M.UIGOT:  "You  know  exactly  what  I  mean. 
Your  power  lies  in  love-making,  not  in  loving;  you 
don't  love  any  one  but  yourself." 

At  this,  Peter  moved  away  from  me  as  if  I  had 
struck  him  and  said  in  a  low  tense  voice : 

"I  am  glad  I  did  not  say  that.  I  would  not  care 
to  have  said  such  a  cat-cruel  thing;  but  1  pity  the 
man  who  marries  you!  He  will  think— as  I  did— 
that  you  are  impulsively,  throbbingly  warm  and 
kind  and  gentle;  and  he  will  find  that  he  has  mar- 
ried a  governess  and  a  prig;  and  a  woman  whose 
fire — of  which  she  boasts  so  much— blasts  his  soul." 

I  listened  to  a  Peter  I  had  never  heard  before, 
His  face  frightened  me.  It  indicated  suiFering.  I 
put  my  head  against  his  and  said: 

"How  can  I  make  an  honest  man  of  you,  my 
dearest?" 


I  was  getting  quite  clever  about  people,  as  the 
Mrs.  Bo  episode  had  taught  me  a  lot. 

A  short  time  after  this  conversation,  I  observed 
a  dark,  good-looking  woman  pursuing  Peter 
Flower  at  every  ball  and  party.    He  told  me  when 

[179] 


i 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  teased  him  that  she  failed  to  arrest  his  attention 
and  that,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  flattered  him 
by  my  jealousy.  I  persisted  and  said  that  I  did  not 
know  if  it  was  jealousy  but  that  I  was  convinced 
she  was  a  bad  friend  for  him. 

Peter:  "I've  always  noticed  you  think  things 
bad  when  they  don't  suit  you,  but  why  should  I 
give  up  my  life  to  you?  What  do  you  give  me  in 
return?  I'm  the  laughing-stock  of  London!  But, 
if  it  is  any  satisfaction  to  you,  I  well  tell  you  I 
don't  care  for  the  black  lady,  as  you  call  her,  and 
I  never  see  her  except  at  parties," 

I  knew  Peter  as  well  as  a  cat  knows  its  way  in 
the  dark  and  I  felt  the  truth  of  his  remark:  what 
did  I  give  him?  But  I  was  not  in  a  humour  to 
argue. 

The  lady  often  asked  me  to  go  and  see  her,  but 
I  shrank  from  it  and  had  never  been  inside  her 
house. 

One  day  I  told  Peter  I  would  meet  him  at  the 
Soane  Collection  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  To  my 
surprise  he  said  he  had  engaged  himself  to  see  his 
sister,  who  had  been  ill,  and  pointed  out  with  a 
laugh  that  my  govemessing  was  taking  root.  He 
added: 

[180] 


5 
»1 


AN  AUTOBIOGRxVPHY 

"I  don't  mind  giving  it  up  if  you  can  spend  the 
whole  afternoon  with  me." 

I  told  him  I  would  not  have  him  give  up  going 
to  see  his  sister  for  the  world. 

Finding  myself  at  a  loose  end,  I  thought  I  would 
pay  a  visit  to  the  black  lady,  as  it  was  unworthy  of 
me  to  have  such  a  prejudice  against  some  one  whom 
I  did  not  know.  It  was  a  hot  London  day;  pale 
colours,  thin  stuffs,  naked  throats  and  large  hats 
were  strewn  about  the  parks  and  streets. 

When  I  arrived,  the  lady's  bell  was  answered  by 
a  hall-boy  and,  hearing  the  piano,  I  told  him  he 
need  not  announce  me.    When  I  opened  the  door, 
I  saw  Pete-  and  the  dark  lady  sharing  the  same' 
seat  in  front  of  the  open  piano.    She  wore  a  black 
satin  sleeveless  tea-gown,  cut  low  at  the  throat, 
with  a  coral  ribbon  round  her  waist,  and  she  had 
stuck  a  white  rose  in  her  rather  dishevelled  Carmen 
hair.     I  stood  still,  startled  by  her  beauty  and 
stunned  by  Peter's  face.    She  got  up,  charmed  to 
see  me,  and  expressed  her  joy  at  the  amazing  luck 
which  had  brought  me  there  that  very  afternoon, 
as  she  had  a  wonderful  Spaniard  coming  to  play  to 
her  after  tea  and  she  had  often  beeii  told  by  Peter 
how  musical  I  was,  etc.,  etc.    She  hoped  I  was  not 

[181] 


£ 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

shocked  by  her  appearance,  but  she  has  just  come 
back  from  a  studio  and  it  was  too  hot  to  expect 
people  to  get  into  decent  clothes.  She  was  per- 
fectly at  her  ease  and  more  than  welcoming;  before 
I  could  answer,  she  rallied  Peter  and  said  she 
pleaded  guilty  of  having  lured  him  away  from  the 
path  of  duty  that  afternoon,  ending  with  a  slight 
twinkle: 

"From  what  I'm  told,  Miss  Margot,  you  would 
never  have  done  anything  so  wicked?    .    ,    ." 
I  felt  ice  in  my  blood  and  said: 
"You  needn't  believe  that!    I've  lured  him  away 
from  the  path  of  duty  for  the  last  eight  years, 
haven't  I,  Peter?" 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  silence  and  I  looked 
about  for  a  means  of  escape,  but  it  took  me  some 
little  time  to  find  one. 

I  said  good-bye  and  left  the  house. 
When  I  was  alone  I  locked  the  door,  flung  my- 
self on  my  sofa,  and  was  blinded  by  tears.  Peter 
was  right;  he  had  said,  "Why  should  I  give  up  my 
life  to  you?"  Why  indeed!  And  yet,  after  eight 
years,  this  seemed  a  terrible  ending  to  me. 

"What  do  you  give  me  in  return?"  What  indeed  ? 
What  claim  had  I  to  his  fidelity?    I  thought  I  was 
[182] 


bi 


'^ 


J 


I 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

giving  gold  for  silver,  but  the  dark  lady  would  have 
called  it  copper  for  gold.  Was  she  prepared  to 
give  everything  for  nothing?  Why  should  I  call 
it  nothing?  What  did  I  know  of  Peter's  love  for 
her?  All  I  knew  was  she  had  taught  him  to  lie; 
and  he  must  love  her  very  much  to  do  that :  he  had 
never  lied  to  me  before. 

I  went  to  the  opera  that  night  with  my  father  and 
mother.  Peter  came  into  our  box  in  a  state  of 
intense  misery;  I  could  hardly  look  at  him.  He 
put  his  hand  out  toward  me  under  the  progranmie 
and  I  took  it. 

At  that  moment  the  servant  brought  me  a  note 
and  asked  me  to  give  her  the  answer.  I  opened  it 
and  this  was  what  I  read: 

"If  you  want  to  do  a  very  kind  thing  come  and 
see  me  after  the  opera  to-night.  Don't  say  no." 

I  showed  it  to  Peter,  and  he  said,  "Go."  It  was 
from  the  dark  lady;  I  asked  him  what  she  wanted 
me  for  and  he  said  she  was  terribly  unhappy. 

"Ah,  Peter,"  said  I,  "what  have  you  done?  .  .  ." 

Peter:  "I  know  .  .  .  it's  quite  true;  but 
I've  broken  it  off  for  ever  with  her." 

Nothing  he  could  have  said  then  ^  1  have 
lightened  my  heart. 

[183] 


wrmfm 


::;r*i 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  scribbled,  "Yes,"  on  the  same  paper  and  gave 
it  back  to  the  girl. 

When  I  said  good  night  to  my  mother  that  night 
after  the  opera,  I  told  her  where  I  was  going. 
Peter  was  stanf^ing  in  the  front  hall  and  took  me  in 
a  hansom  to  the  lady's  house,  saying  he  would  wait 
for  me  round  the  corner  while  I  had  my  interview 
with  her. 

It  was  past  midnight  and  I  felt  overpoweringly 
tired.  My  beautiful  rival  opened  the  front  door  to 
me  and  I  followed  her  silently  up  to  her  bedroom. 
She  took  off  my  opera-cloak  and  we  sat  down 
facing  each  other.  The  room  was  large  and  dark 
but  for  a  row  of  candles  on  the  mantel-piece  and 
two  high  church-lights  each  side  of  a  silver  pier- 
glass.  There  was  a  table  near  my  chair  with  odds 
and  ends  on  it  and  a  general  smell  of  scent  and 
flowers.  I  looked  at  her  in  her  blue  satin  night- 
gown and  saw  that  she  had  been  crying. 

"It  is  kind  of  you  to  have  come,"  she  said,  "and 
I  daresay  you  know  why  I  wanted  to  see  you 
to-night." 

Margot:  "No,  I  don't;  I  haven't  the  faintest 
idea!" 

[184] 


IE 

i 
I 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  Lady    (looking  rather  emharrcutsed,  huf 

after  a  moment'^  pame) :  "I  want  you  to  tell  me 

about  yourself." 

I  felt  this  to  be  a  wrong  entry:  she  had  sent  for 

me  to  tell  her  abo.it  Peter  Flower  and  not  myself; 

but  why  should  I  tell  her  about  either  of  us?     I 

had  never  spoken  of  my  love-affairs  exeepting  to 

my  mother  and  my  three  friends— Con  Manners, 

Franees    Homer,    and    Etty    Desborough-and 

people  had  ceased  speaking  to  me  about  them;  why 

should  I  sit  up  with  a  stranger  and  discuss  myself 

at  this  time  of  night?    I  said  there  was  nothing  to 

tell.     She  answered  by  saying  she  had  met  so 

many  people  who  cared  for  me  that  she  felt  she 

almost  knew  me,  to  which  I  replied: 

"In  that  case,  why  talk  about  me?" 

The  Lady:  "But  some  people  care  for  both  of 
us." 

Makgot  (rather  coldly) :  "I  da^     ay." 

The  Lady:  "Don't  be  hard.  I  want  to  know  if 

you  love  Peter  Flower.     ...    Do  you  intend 

to  marry  him?" 

The  question  had  come  then:  this  terrible  question 
which  my  mother  had  never  asked  and  which  I  had 

[185] 


nMHMi 


|!| 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

always  evaded!    IJad  it  got  to  be  answered  now 
•     .     .    and  to  a  stranger? 

With  a  determined  effort  to  control  mvself  I 
said  : 

"Vou  mean,  am  I  engaged  to  be  married?" 
The  Lady  :  "I  mean  what  I  say;  are  you  going 
to  marry  Peter?" 

M.1HGOT:  "I  have  never  told  him  I  would." 
The  Lady  {ven/  ,hn,uj) .-  "Remember,  my  life 
IS  bound  up  in  your  answer.     .     .     ." 

Her  words  seemed  to  burn  and  I  felt  a  kind  of 
pity  for  her.  She  was  leaning  forward  with  her 
eyes  fastened  on  mine  and  her  hands  clasped  be- 
tween her  knees. 

"If  you  don't  love  him  enough  to  marry  him, 
why  don't  you  leave  him  alone?"  she  said.  "Why 
do  you  keep  him  bound  to  you?  Why  don't  you 
set  him  free?" 

Maegot:  "He  is  free  to  love  whom  he  likes;  I 
don't  keep  him,  but  I  won't  share  liim." 

The  Lady:  "You  don't  love  him,  but  you  want 
to  keep  him;  that  is  pure  selfishness  and  vanity  " 

Maegot:  "Not  at  all!     I  would  give  him  up 
to-morrow  and  have  told  him  so  a  thousand  times 
[186] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

if  he  would  marry;  but  he  is  not  in  a  position  to 
marry  any  one." 

The  Lady:  "How  can  you  say  such  a  thingi 
His  debts  have  just  been  paid  by  God  knows  who — 
some  woman,  I  suppose! — and  you  are  rich  your- 
self. What  is  there  to  hinder  you  from  marrying 
him?" 

Margot:  "That  was  not  whi»t  I  was  thinking 
about.  I  don't  believe  you  would  understand  even 
if  I  were  to  explain  it  to  you." 

The  L.vdy  :  "If  you  were  really  in  love  you  could 
not  be  so  critical  and  censorious." 

:Mahoot:  "Oh,  yes,  I  could!  You  don't  know 
me. 

The  Lady:  "I  love  him  in  a  way  you  would 
never  understand.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world 
I  would  not  do  for  him!  No  pain  I  would  not 
suffer  and  no  sacrifice  I  would  not  make." 

Mabgot:  "What  could  you  do  for  him  that 
would  help  him?" 

The  Lady:  "I  would  leave  my  husband  and  my 
children  and  go  right  away  with  him." 

I  felt  as  if  she  had  stabbed  me. 

"Leave  your  children!  and  your  husband!"  I 
said.     "But  how  can  ruining  them  and  yourself 

[187] 


.<* 


i 


MARGOT  ASQIJITII 

he  «i),il,|  ever  ,l„  anything  »„  vile  " 

The  L.u>v:   -Vo,,  „„„i  ,,^  ,,„,^.,  _ 

to  run  away  «it|,  ,„c.  <1„  j.„u,-. 

M.a«o-,   (,0,7;,  i„,ni,„ation):  "Perhaps  I  l,„i.e 
he  cares  too  irmch  for  ,,„„  '■  '  ' 

,     ,    ■''•     ""■"' '1»  yu  know  al„,„t  love !    Ihave 

1:';,"":"™'  '"--•  '■"'  I'^^"  "'i-wer  ,-.,  .he  o,  , 
man  I  have  ever  really  care,!  for;  and  n>y  life  i, 

Man  end  ,f  you  will  not  Kive  him  „p." 
iU»aon  "There  is  no  question  of  „,y  givi„„  „:„ 

up;  he  IS  free,  I  tell  you "  * 

The  La..v:  "I  tell  you  he  is  not  I    He  d,«,n't 
ir''^  hunself  free,  he  said  as  n,ueh  to  „      , " 
»ften,<K,n  .  .  .  when  he  wanted  to  break  it. 1,  off '• 
AL„,ooT-ma,doyouwish.„et„dothen>       . 
The  L^v=  "Tell  Peter  you  don't  love  himVn 
the  r,«ht  way,  that  you  don',  intend  to  marry  ZZ 
and  then  leave  him  alone  "  ' 

M.v»oot:  "Do  you  mean  I  am  to  leave  him  to 
yo"-  ...  Do  »m,  lov.  him  in  the  right  way?" 

«h  Tl'l'.^""  '■  "°""''  '"'^  ■•""1"''  I'-^'ions." .  .     I 
shall  k,||  myself  if  he  gives  me  up  " 

After  this,  I  felt  there  was  nothing  more  to  be 


-yr-lC  -•aM^ -. 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

said.    I  told  her  that  Peter  hud  a  i)erfect  n'ffht  to 
do  what  he  liked  and  that  I  had  neither  the  will 


the 


nor 


his 


power  to  influenee  nis  decision; 
abroad  with  n.y  sister  Luey  to  Italy  and  would  in 
any  case  not  see  him  for  several  weeks;  but  I  added 
that  all  my  influence  over  him  for  years  had  been 
directed  into  making  him  the  right  sort  of  r  'an  to 
marry  and  that  all  hers  would  of  necessity  lie  ii.  the 
opDosite  direction.  Not  knowing  quite  how  to  say 
good-bye,  I  began  to  finger  my  cloak;  seeing  my 
intention,  she  said: 

"Just  wait  one  moment,  will  you?  I  want  to 
know  if  you  are  as  good  as  Peter  always  tells  me 
you  are;  don't  answer  till  I  see  your  eyes.  .  .  ." 

She  took  two  candles  off  the  chimneypiece  and 
placed  them  on  the  table  near  me,  a  little  in  front 
of  my  face,  and  then  knelt  upon  the  ground;  I 
looked  at  her  wonderful  wild  eyes  and  stretched  out 
my  hands  towards  her. 

"Nonsense!"  I  said.  "I  am  not  in  the  least  good ! 
Get  up!  When  I  see  you  kneeling  at  my  feet,  I 
feel  sorry  for  you." 

The  Lady  (getting  up  abruptly) :  "For  God's 
sake  don't  pity  rael" 


[189] 


■f  j 


\  > 


JMARGOT  ASQUITII 

Thinking  over  the  situation  in  the  calm  of  my 
room.  I  had  no  (jualms  as  to  either  the  elopement 
or  the  suicide,  hut  I  felt  a  revulsion  of  feehng  to- 
wards  Peter.  His  lack  of  moral  in.h>nati.>n  and 
purptMc.  his  intractahility  in  all  that  was  seriotis 
and  his  incapacity  to  improve  had  heen  cutting?  a 
deep  though  unconscious  division  hetween  us  for 
years;  and  I  determined  at  whatever  cost,  after 
this,  that  I  would  say  good-hye  to  him. 

A  few  days  later,  Lord  DuflFerin  came  to  see 
me  in  Grosvenor  Square. 

"Margot,"  he  said,  "wh>  lon't  you  marry?  You 
are  twenty-seven;  a.id  life  won't  go  on  treating 
you  so  well  if  you  go  on  treating  it  like  this.  As 
an  old  friend  who  loves  you,  let  me  give  you  one 
word  of  advice.  You  should  marrj-  in  spite  of  heing 
in  love,  but  never  because  of  it," 

Before  I  went  away  to  Italy,  Peter  and  I,  with 
passion-lit  eyes  and  throbbing  hearts,  had  said  good- 
bye to  each  other  for  ever. 

The  relief  of  our  friends  at  our  parting  was  so 
suffocating  that  I  clung  to  the  shelter  of  my  new 
friend,  the  stranger  of  that  House  of  Commons 
dinner. 


[190] 


■^m 


CHAPTKR  V 

THK  ASgriTir  lAMri.Y  THKK— IIEHIIFRT  ir.  ASQlTITIf's 
MOTIIKIt— A.S«i:iTIi'»  flHST  MAHKIACJK;  MKKT8 
MAH(J<>T  TKNNAXT  I  OR  FIRST  TIMK — TALK  TIIX 
DAWN  ON  IIOrsF.  OF  C'()MMf)Xs'  TERRAlF. ;  OTIIKR 
MKF.ri\(;s— KN(JA(iKMKNT  A  UJNUON  SENSATION 
— MAHHtA(;K  AN  KVENT 

"V^V  husband's  father  was  Joseph  Dixon 
^^^  Ascjuith,  a  cloth-merchant,  in  Morlcy,  at  that 
time  a  small  town  outside  Leeds.  lie  was  a  man  of 
hi^h  chajacter  who  held  Bible  classes  for  young 
men.  He  married  a  daughter  of  William  Willans, 
of  Iluddcrsfield,  who  sprang  of  an  old  Yorkshire 
Puritan  sto'k. 

lie  died  when  h  was  thirty-five,  leaving  four 
children :  William  Willans,  Herbert  Henry,  Emily 
Evelyn  and  Lilian  Josephine.  They  were  brought 
up  by  their  mother,  who  was  a  woman  of  genius. 
T  named  my  only  daughter*  after  Goethe's  mother, 
but  was  glad  when  I  found  out  that  her  grand- 
mother Willans  had  been  called  Elizabeth. 

•Princess  Bibesco. 

[191] 


■'■ 


ll.  t 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

William  Willans— who  is  dead— was  the  eldest 
of  the  family  and  a  clever  little  man.  He  taught  at 
Clifton  College  for  over  thirty  years. 

Lilian  Josephine  died  when  she  was  a  baby;  and 
Evelyn— one  of  the  best  of  women— is  the  only 
near  relation  of  my  husband  still  living. 

My  husband's  mother,  old  Mrs.  Asciuith,  I  never 
knew;  my  friend  .Alark  Napier  told  me  that  she  was 
a  brilliantly  clever  woman  but  an  invalid.  She  had 
delicate  lungs,  which  obliged  her  to  live  on  the 
South  coast;  and,  when  her  two  sons  went  to  the 
City  of  London  School,  they  lived  alone  together 
in  lodgings  in  Islington  and  were  both  poor  and  in- 
dustrious. 

Although  Henry's  mother  was  an  invalid  she  had 
a  moral,  religious  and  intellectual  influence  over  her 
family  that  cannot  be  exaggerated.  She  was  a 
profound  reader  and  a  brilliant  talker  and  belonged 
to  what  M'as  in  those  days  called  orthodox  noncon- 
formity, or  Congregationalists. 

After  my  husband's  first  marriage  he  made 
money  by  writing,  lecturing  and  examining  at  Ox- 
ford. When  he  was  called  to  the  Bar  success  did 
not  come  to  him  at  once. 

He  had  no  rich  patron  and  no  one  to  push  him 
[192] 


-Tf! 
1 


'I 


HKRBEBT  IIEXHV    ASQIITU    AS    ME    HAS    WHEN    „E   RESfGNEI)    IMF 
I'HK.MIEHSMII-ro   MOVIMiEOHdE  IM  KlXCi   TME    WAK 


RAYAM)\I(    \S(JI|TM.    MIS    (IE 
IIERBEKT    MENRV    AS^I MM    HV 
HIS    URST    .^r  XHHI  V(,E.    ME 

"AS    KM  I  Ell   I  V    liEll.n    M 

nriiixi;   i  me  «  \h 


Il'ff 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


forward.  He  had  made  for  himself  a  great  Oxford 
reputation:  he  was  a  fine  scholar  and  lawyer,  but 
socially  was  not  known  by  many  people. 

It  was  said  that  Gladstone  only  promoted  men 
by  seniority  and  never  before  knowing  with  pre- 
cision what  they  were  like,  but  in  my  husband's 
case  it  was  not  so. 

Lord  James  of  Hereford,  then  Sir  Henry  James, 
was  Attorney  General,  overburdened  with  a  large 
private  practice  at  the  Bar;  and,  when  the  great 
Bradlaugh  case  came  on,  in  1883,  it  was  suggested 
to  him  that  a  young  maa  living  on  the  same  stair- 
case might  devil  the  Affirmation  Bill  for  him.  This 
was  the  beginning  of  Asquith's  career.  When  Glad- 
stone saw  the  brief  for  his  speech,  he  noted  the  fine 
handwriting  and  asked  who  had  written  it.  Sir 
Henrj'  James,  the  kindest  and  most  generous  of 
men,  was  delighted  at  Gladstone's  observation  and 
brought  the  young  man  to  him.  From  thpi  mo- 
ment both  the  Attorney  General  and  the  Prime 
]Minister  marked  him  out  for  distinction;  he  rose 
without  any  intermediary  step  of  an  under-secre- 
taryship  from  a  back-bencher  to  a  Cabinet  ^linistcr; 
and  when  we  married  in  1894  he  was  Home  Secre- 
tary.   In  1890  I  cut  and  kept  out  of  some  news- 

[193] 


■#■ 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

papers  this  prophecy,  little  thinking  that  I  would 
marry  one  of  the  "New  English  Party." 

A  New  English  Paety 

Amid  all  the  worry  and  turmoil  and  ambition  of 
Irish  politics,  there  is  steadily  growing  up  a  liitle 
English  party,  of  which  more  will  he  heard  in  the 
days  that  are  to  come.  This  is  a  hand  of  philosoph- 
ico-social  Radicals — not  the  old  type  of  laissez- 
faire   politician,   but    quite   otherwise.      In   other 
words,  what  I  may  call  practical   Socialism  has 
caught  on  afresh  with  a  knot  of  clever,  youngish 
members  of  Parliament  who  sit  below  the  gangway 
on  the  Radical  side,     Thi^-  little  group  includes 
clever,  learned,  metaphysical  ^ilr.  Ilaldane,  one  of 
the  rising  lawyers  of  his  day;  young  Sir  Edward 
Grey,  sincere,  enthusiastic,  with  a  certain  gift  for 
oratory,  and  helped  by  a  beautiful  and  clever  wife; 
Mr.  Sidney  Buxton,  who  has  perhaps  the  most  dis- 
tinct genius  for  practical  work;  and  finally,  though 
in  rather  loose  attachment  to  the  rest,  Mr.  Asquith, 
brilliant,  cynical,  cold,  clear,  but  with  his  eye  on  the 
future.    The  dominant  ideas  of  this  little  band  tend 
in  the  direction  of  moderate  Collectivism — i.e.,  of 
municipal  Socialism. 

I  met  my  husband  for  the  first  time  in  1891,  at 
a  dinner  given  by  Peter  Flower's  brother  Cyril.*  I 
had  never  heard  of  him  in  my  life,  which  gives  some 
indication  of  how  I  was  wasting  my  time  on  two 

•Tne  late  Lord  Battersea. 

[194] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


4 


worlds:  I  do  not  mean  this  and  the  next,  but  the 
sporting  and  dramatic,  Melton  in  the  winter  and  the 
Lyceum  in  the  summer.     My  Coquelin  coachings 
and  my  dancing-lessons  had  led  me  to  rehearsals 
both  of  the  ballet  and  the  drama;  and  for  a  short 
time  I  was  at  the  feet  of  Pollen  Terrj'  and  Irving. 
I  say  "short"  advisedly,  for  then  as  now  I  found 
Bohemian  society  duller  than  any  English  water- 
ing-place.    Plvery  one  has  a  different  conception 
of  Hell  and  few  of  us  connect  it  with  flames;  but 
stage  suppers  are  my  idea  of  Hell  and,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Irving  and  Cocjuelin,  Ellen  Terry  and 
Sarah  Bernhardt,  I  have  never  met    '     '  "-^   or 
heroine  off  the  stage  that  was  not  ultimately    'ull. 
The  dinner  where  I  was  introduced  to  Henry  was 
in  the  House  of  Commons  and  I  sat  next  to  him.    I 
was  tremendously  impressed  by  his  conversation 
and  his  clean  Cromwellian  face.    He  was  different 
from  the  others  and,  although  abominably  dressed, 
had  so  much  personality  that  I  made  up  my  mind 
at  once  that  here  was  a  man  who  could  help  me  and 
would  understand  everything.     It  never  crossed 
my  brain  that  he  was  married,  nor  would  that  have 
mattered;  I  had  always  been  more  anxious  that 
Peter  Flower  should  marry  than  myself,  because 

[195] 


Il 


1 


MAKGOT  ASQUITH 

he  was  thirteen  years  older  than  I  was,  but  matri- 
mony was  not  the  austere  purpose  of  either  of  our 
lives. 

After  (liimer  we  all  walked  on  the  Terrace  and  I 
was  flattered  to  find  my  new  friend  by  my  side. 
Lord  Battersea  chafTed  me  in  his  noisy,  flamboy- 
ant manner,  trying  to  separate  us;  but  with  tact 
and  determination  this  frontal  attack  was  resisted 
and  my  new  friend  and  I  retired  to  the  darkest  part 
of  the  Terrace,  where,  leaning  over  the  parapet,  we 
gazed  into  the  river  and  talked  far  into  the  night. 

Our  host  and  his  party— thinking  that  I  had  gone 
home  and  that  Mr.  Asquith  had  returned  to  the 
House  when  the  division  bell  rang— had  disap- 
peared; and  when  we  finished  our  conversation  the 
Terrace  was  deserted  and  the  sky  light. 

We  met  a  few  days  latej  dining  with  Sir  Alger- 
non West — a  very  dear  and  early  friend  of  mine — 
and  after  this  we  saw  each  other  constantly.  I 
found  out  from  something  he  said  to  me  that  he  was 
married  and  lived  at  Hampstead  and  that  his  days 
were  divided  between  1  Paper  Buildings  and  the 
House  of  Commons.  He  told  me  that  he  had  al- 
ways been  a  shy  man  and  in  some  ways  this  is  true 
of  him  even  now;  but  I  am  glad  that  I  did  not 
[190] 


n 

P 


AX  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


observe  it  at  the  time,  us  shy  people  (hsconcerted 
nie:  I  liked  modesty,  I  pitied  timidity,  but  I  was 
embarrassed  by  shyness. 

I  cannot  truly  say,  however,  that  the  word  shy 
described  my  husband  at  any  time:  he  was  a  little 
gauche  in  movement  and  blushed  when  he  was 
praised,  but  I  have  never  seen  him  nervous  with 
any  one  or  embarrassed  by  any  social  dilemma.  His 
unerring  instinct  into  all  sorts  of  people  and  affairs 
— quite  apart  from  his  intellectual  temperament 
and  learning — and  his  incredible  lack  of  vanity 
struck  me  at  once.  The  art  of  making  every  man 
better  pleased  with  himself  he  had  in  a  high  degree; 
and  he  retains  to  this  day  an  incurable  modesty. 

When  I  discovered  that  he  was  married.  I  asked 
him  to  bring  his  wife  to  dinner,  which  he  did,  and 
directy  I  saw  her  I  said : 

"I  do  hope,  3Irs.  Asquith,  you  have  not  minded 
your  husband  dining  here  without  you,  but  I  ratlier 
gathered  Hampstead  was  tcxi  far  away  for  him  to 
get  back  to  you  from  the  House  of  Commons.  You 
must  always  let  me  know  and  come  with  him  when- 
ever it  suits  you." 


1 

3 


In  making  this  profound  and  attaching  friend- 

[197] 


ii.s  . 


m. 


'I 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

ship  with  the  stranger  of  that  House  of  Commons 
dinner,  I    had  placed  myself  in  a  difficult  position 
when  Helen  Ascpiith  died.     To  be  a  stcpwife  and 
a  stepmother  was  unthinkable,  but  at  the  same  time 
the  moment  had  arrived  when  a  decision — involving 
a  great  change  in  my  life— had  become  inevitable. 
I  had  written  to  Peter  Flower  before  we  parted 
every  day  for  nine  years— with  the  exception  of  the 
months  he  had  spent  flying  from  his  creditors  in 
India— and  I  had  prayed  for  him  every  night,  but 
it  had  not  brought  more  than  happiness  to  both  of 
us;  and  when  I  deliberately  said  good-bye  to  him 
I  shut  down  a  page  of  my  life  which,  even  if  I  had 
wished  to,  I  could  never  have  reopened.     When 
Henry  told  me  he  cared  for  me,  that  unstifled  inner 
voice  which  we  all  of  us  hear  more  or  less  indis- 
tinctly told  me  I  would  be  untrue  to  myself  and 
quite  unworthy  of  life  if,  when  such  a  man  came 
knocking  at  the  door,  I  did  not  fling  it  wide  open. 
The  rumour  that  we  were  engaged  to  be  married 
caused  alarm  amounting  to  consternation  in  certain 
circles.    Both  Lord  Rosebery  and  Lord  Randolph 
Churchill,  without  impugning  me  in  any  way,  de- 
plored the  marriage,  nor  were  they  by  any  means 
alone  in  thinking  such  a  union  might  ruin  the  life 
[198] 


•« 


I 

i 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

of  a  promising  politician.  Some  of  my  own  friends 
were  equally  apprehensive  from  another  point  of 
view;  to  start  my  new  life  charged  with  a  ready- 
made  family  of  children  brought  up  very  diif'erent- 
ly  from  myself,  with  a  man  who  played  no  games 
and  cared  for  no  sport,  in  London  instead  of  in  tlie 
country,  with  no  money  except  what  he  could  make 
at  the  Bar,  was,  they  thought,  taking  too  many 
risks. 

My  3Ielton  friends  said  it  was  a  terrible  waste 
that  I  was  not  mariying  a  sporting  man  and  told 
me  afterwards  that  they  nearly  signed  a  round- 
robin  to  implore  me  never  to  give  up  hunting,  but 
feared  I  might  think  it  impertinent. 

The  rumour  of  my  engagement  caused  a  sensa- 
tion in  the  East-end  of  London  as  well  as  the  West. 
The  following  was  posted  to  me  by  an  anonj-mous 
well-wisher: 

At  the  meeting  of  the  "unemployed"  held  on 
Tower  Hill  yesterday  afternoon,  John  E.  Williams, 
the  organiser  appointed  by  the  Social  Democratic 
Feder  ion,  said  that  on  the  previous  day  they  had 
gone  through  the  ^Vest-end  squares  and  had  let 
the  "loafers"  living  there  know  that  they  were  alive. 
On  the  previous  evening  he  had  seen  an  announce- 
ment which,  at  first  sight,  had  caused  tears  to  run 

[199] 


MARGOT  ASQUITII 

down  his  face,  for  lie  had  thought  it  read,  "Mr. 
Asquith  goinpf  to  he  inunkred."  However,  it 
turned  out  that  Mr.  Asquith  was  ^oing  to  he  mar- 
ried, and  he  aect.rdingly  proposed  that  the  unem- 
ployed, following  the  example  if  tiic  people  in  the 
West-end,  should  forward  the  right  hon.  gentle- 
man a  congratulatory  message.  lie  moved:  "That 
this  mass  meeting  of  the  unemployed  held  on  Tower 
Hill,  hearing  that  Mr.  iVscjuith  is  ahout  to  enter  the 
holy  bonds  of  matrimojiy,  and  knowing  he  has  no 
sympathy  for  the  unemployed,  and  that  he  has 
lately  used  his  position  in  the  House  of  Commons 
to  insult  the  unemployed,  trusts  that  his  partner 
will  be  one  of  the  worst  tartars  it  is  possible  for  a 
man  to  have,  and  that  his  family  troubles  will  com- 
pel him  to  retire  from  political  life,  for  which  he  is 
so  unfit."  The  reading  of  the  resolution  was  fol- 
lowed by  loud  laughter  and  cheers.  Mr.  Crouch 
(National  Union  of  Boot  and  Shoe  Operatives) 
seconded  the  motion,  which  was  supported  by  a 
large  number  of  other  speakers  and  adopted. 

I  was  much  more  r.fraid  of  spoiling  Henry's  life 
than  my  own,  and  what  with  old  ties  and  bothers, 
and  new  ties  and  stepchildren,  I  deliberated  a  long 
time  before  the  final  fixing  of  my  wedding-day. 

I  had  never  met  any  of  his  children  except  little 

Violet  when  I  became  engaged  and  he  only  took 

me  to  see  them  once  before  we  were  married,  as 

they  lived  in  a  villa  at  Redhill  under  the  charge  of  a 

[200] 


Mr.  Atqaitb  and  Hit  riuio4t< 
Rarelv  b»»an.v  tocial  event,  nyt  «  despatch 
by  the  Hibald's  Special    Wire,  cmtti  such 
i^ideipread  inttrett  ■■ 
the  aDDoiioccment  of 
thfl     CDgagemeot    of 
Ur   Atqoiih  to  MiM 
Margot  TcDnont,  and 
coagratuUtiona    are 
general    and   sincere. 
Probably    bo      oung 
unmarried  worn.  .  baa 
e»er   before  wen   !   r 
herself  »o  remarkajie 
tt    position    as    ilia 
Tennant  has  won   io 
the  heart  of  an  unu- 
sually   brillia'^t    and 
competitive     society. 
The  circle  in    which 
abe  has  been  a  lead- 
ing spirit  has  beeu  a 
subject     of    specula- 
tion,    envv     and      misunderstanding,     under 
their  ridiculous  name  of  "  Souls,"  for  some  years 
past,   but   if   they  have   not  escaped  from  the 
unfortunate    and    inevitable    disadvantjge  of » 
clique,  they  hr.ve  at  the   same  lime  quickened 
and  stimulatec.  a  genuine  if  somewhat  dilettante 
interest  in  thingt  of  mind  as   opposed  to  the 
ordinary  frivolous  interests  of  the  hour,  and  for 
this  they  will  l^e  and  deserve  to  be  remembered. 


THE  riAVCt. 


ANNOINCKMKNT  IN  ••THE  NKW  YOUK  llKKAl.l)' ■  KKllUU  \1{Y  Iflol 
OK  THK  KNQAOEME.VT  OF  MAROOT  TE.VXANT  AND  IIEUUKKT 
IIKNUY   ASQVITH 


[201] 


'I 


1 1  n 


'  t 


;i  ( 


m 


'  i 


M^il^^ 


AX  At  TOIUOCHAPIIV 


P 


c 


kind  and  cnreful  jfovcrncss ;  he  never  spoke  of 
them  cxeept  one  day  vvlun,  after  my  asking  liim  if 
he  thought  they  would  hate  me  and  eatalogiiirjg  my 
^avc  imperfections  and  moderate  <|ualifi(atiuns  for 
the  part,  he  .stopj)ed  me  and  said  that  his  eldest  son, 
Haymond.  was  remarkably  clever  and  would  he 
tlevoted  to  me,  adding  thoughtfully: 
"I  think — and  hope-  he  is  anihiti<»us." 
This  was  a  new  idea  to  me:  we  had  always  been 
told  wliat  a  wicked  thing  and)ition  was;  but  we  were 
a  fighting  family  of  high  spirits  and  not  temper, 
so  we  had  acquiesced,  without  conforming  to  the 
nursery  dictum.  The  remark  profoundly  im- 
pressed me  and  I  pondered  it  over  in  my  heart.  I 
do  not  think,  by  the  way,  that  it  turned  out  to  be  a 
true  prophecy,  but  Raymond  As(|uitb  had  such  un- 
usual intellectual  gifts  that  no  one  could  have  con- 
victed him  of  lack  of  ambition.  To  win  without 
work,  to  score  without  an  effort  and  to  delight  with- 
out premeditation  is  given  to  few. 

One  night  after  our  engagement  we  were  dining 
with  Sir  Henry  and  Lady  Cainpbell-Bannerman. 
While  the  women  were  talking  and  the  men  drink- 
ing, dear  old  Mrs.  Gladstone  and  other  elderly 
ladies  and  political  wi'-"--:  took  me  on  as  to  the  duties 

[203] 


MAUGOT  ASQUITH 

of  the  spouse  of  a  possible  Prime  Minister;  they 
were  so  elocjuent  and  severe  tliat  at  the  end  of  it 
my  nerves  were  racing  round  like  a  squirrel  in  a 
cage. 

When  Mr.  Gladstone  came  into  the  drawing- 
room  I  felt  depressed  and,  clinging  to  his  arm.  I 
switched  him  into  a  corner  and  said  I  feared  the 
ladies  took  me  for  a  jockey  or  a  ballet-girl,  as  I  had 
been  adjured  to  give  up,  among  other  things,  danc- 
ing, riding  and  acting.  He  patted  my  hand,  said 
he  knew  no  one  better  fitted  to  be  the  wife  of  a  great 
politician  than  myself  and  ended  by  saying  that, 
while  I  was  entitled  to  discard  exaggeration  in  re- 
buke, it  was  a  grea^  mistake  not  to  take  criticism 
wisely  and  in  a  spirit  which  might  turn  it  to  good 
account. 

I  have  often  thought  of  this  when  I  see  how 
brittle  and  egotistical  people  are  at  the  smallest  dis- 
approbation. I  never  get  over  my  surprise,  old  as 
I  am,  at  the  surly  moral  manners,  the  lack  of 
humbleness  and  the  colossal  personal  vanity  that 
are  the  bed-rock  of  people's  incapacity  to  take  criti- 
cism well.  Ther-  is  no  greater  test  of  size  than  this; 
but,  judged  by  this  test,  most  of  us  are  dwarfs. 


.1 


[204] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Disapproving  of  I„ng  engagements  and  wishing 
to  eseape  the  eataract  of  advice  hy  which  my  friends 
ti  o  ight  to  secure  both  my  husband's  and  my  o\\  n 
II'  itrimonial  l)Iiss.  I  hurried  on  my  marriage.  My 
friends  and  advisers  made  me  unhappy  at  this  time, 
but  fortunately  for  me  Henry  Asquith  is  a  comi)el- 
ling  person  and,  in  spite  of  the  anxiety  of  the 
friends  and  relations,  we  were  married  at  St. 
George's,  Hanover  S(juare,  on  :Mdy  the  lOth,  18!)4. 
I  doubt  if  any  bride  ever  received  so  many  strange 
letters  as  I  did.  There  was  one  which  I  kept  in 
front  of  me  when  I  felt  discouraged.  I  shall  not 
say  who  it  is  from,  as  the  writer  is  alive: 

My  DEAK  Makgot, 

You  are  not  different  to  other  people  except  in 
this  respect— you  have  a  clear,  cold  head,  and  a  hot, 
keen  heart,  and  you  won't  find  evenfthiny  so 
choose  what  lasts,  and  with  luck  and  with  pluck, 
marrymg  as  you  are  from  the  highest  motives,  you 
wdl  be  repaid.  Ascpiith  is  far  too  good  for  you. 
He  is  not  conventional,  and  will  give  you  a  great 
deal  of  freedom.  He  worships  you,  and  under- 
stands you,  and  is  bent  on  making  the  best  of  you 
and  the  life  together.  You  are  marrying  a  very 
uncommon  man-not  so  mucli  intellectually— but 
he  IS  uncommon  from  his  Determination,  Uealitv 
and  concentrated  power  of  love.  Don't  pity  your- 
self—you would  not  wish  to  have  loved  Peter  less— 

[205] 


il.1' 


I :    'si 


i^ 


-    ■) 


■■( 


MARGOT  ASQUITII 

though  you  might  wish  you  had  never  seen  him — 
but  you  must  know  you  have  allowed  too  much  love 
in  your  life,  and  nuist  bear  the  C()nse<iuenees.  Deep 
down  in  your  heart  you  must  feel  that  you  ought 
to  put  a  stop  to  youi-  present  life,  and  to  the  tempta- 
tion of  making  pc,  j/le  hue  you.  Depend  upon  it 
with  your  rieli  and  warm  nature  you  need  not  be 
afraid  of  not  loving  Asfjuith  intensely.  Uy  marry- 
ing him  you  will  prove  yourself  to  be  a  woman  of 
courage  and  nobility,  instead  of  a  woman  who  is 
talked  about  and  who  is  in  reality  self-indulgent. 
You  are  lucky  after  your  rather  dangerous  life  to 
have  found  such  a  haven  and  should  bless  God 
for  it. 

In  those  days  it  was  less  common  for  people  to 
collect  in  the  streets  to  see  a  wedding.  The  first 
marriage  I  ever  saw  which  collected  a  crowd  was 
Lady  Crewe's,  but  her  father,  Lord  Rosebery,  was 
a  Derby  winner  and  Prime  Minister  and  she  was 
married  in  Westminster  Abbey.  From  Grosvenc 
Square  to  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  is  a  short 
distance,  but  from  our  front  door  to  the  church  the 
pavements  were  blocked  with  excited  and  enthus- 
iastic people. 

An  old  nurse  of  my  sister  Charlotte's,  Jerusha 

Taylor,   told   me   that   a   gentleman    outside    St. 

George's  had  said  to  her,  "I  will  give  you  £10  for 

that  ticket  of  yours !"  and  when  she  refused  he  said, 

[206] 


-ems 


■  is 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

"I  will  give  you  anything  you  like!  I  must  see 
JMargot  Tennant  married!"  I  asked  her  what  sort 
of  a  man  he  was.    She  answered, 

"Oh!  he  was  a  real  gentleman,  ma'am!  I  know 
a  gentleman  wh;m  I  see  him;  he  had  a  gardenia  in 
his  buttonhole,  but  he  didn't  get  my  ticket!" 

Oiir  register  was  signed  by  four  Prime  Ministers: 
]\Ir.  Gladstone,  Lord  Rosebery,  Arthur  Ualfcur 
and  my  husband.  We  spent  the  first  part  of  our 
honeymoon  at  Mells  Park,  PVome,  lent  to  us  by  Sir 
John  and  Lady  Horner,  and  the  second  at  Clovelly 
Court  with  our  friend  and  hostess,  JNIrs.  Ilandyn. 


[207] 


i 


i  # 


ii   s 


i  r 


M  ,  , 


!   :i 


!    . 


ii=f 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  ASQUITH  CHILDREN  BY  TMi:  FIRST  MARRIAGE— 
MARGOT's  STEPDAUGHTER  VIOLET— MEMORY  OF 
THE  FIRST  MRS.  ASQUITH— RAYMOND'S  BRIL- 
LIANT CAREER— ARTHUR'S  HEROISM  IN  THE 
WAR 

T  DO  not  think  if  you  had  ransacked  the  world 
you  could  have  found  natures  so  opposite  in 

temper,  temperMnent  and  outlook  as  myself  and  my 

stepchildren  when  I  first  knew  them. 

If  there  was  a  difference  between  the  Tennants 
and  Lytteltons  of  laughter,  there  was  a  difference 
between  the  Tennants  and  Asquiths  of  tears.    Ten- 
nants believed  in  appealing  to  the  hearts  of  men, 
firing  their  imagination  and  penetrating  and  vivify- 
ing their  inmost  lives.    They  had  a  little  loose  love 
to  give  the  whole  world.     The  Asquiths— without 
mental  flurry  and  with  perfect  self-mastery— be- 
lieved in  the  free  application  of  intellect  to  every 
human  emotion;  no  event  could  have  given  height- 
ened expression  to  their  feelings.     Shy,  self-en- 
gaged, critical  and  controversial,  nothing  surprised 
[208] 


f  1 


!      ' 


f 


AX  AUTOBIOGUAPHV 

them  and  nothing  upset  them.  We  were  as  zealous 
and  vital  as  they  were  detaehed  and  as  eoeky  and 
passionate  as  they  were  modest  and  emotionless. 

They  rareK  l(K)ked  at  you  and  never  tint  up  when 
any  one  eame  into  the  room.  If  you  had  appeared 
downstairs  in  a  hall-dress  or  a  bathinf?-/?()wn  they 
would  not  have  observed  it  and  would  eertairdy 
never  have  commented  upon  it  if  they  had. 
Whether  they  were  <rlowing  with  joy  at  the  sight 
of  you  or  thrilled  at  receiving  a  friend,  their  wel- 
come was  equally  composed.  They  were  devoted 
to  one  another  and  never  quarrelled ;  they  were  sel- 
dom wild  and  never  naughty.  Perfectly  self-con- 
tained, trutiiful  and  deli'  rate,  I  never  saw  them 
lose  themselves  in  my  life  and  I  have  hardly  ever 
seen  the  saint  or  hero  that  excited  their  disinterested 
emotion. 

AVhen  I  thought  of  the  storms  of  revolt,  the  rage, 
the  despair,  the  wild  enthusiasms  and  reckless  ad- 
ventures, the  disputes  that  finished  not  merely  with 
fights,  but  with  fists  in  our  aursery  and  schoolrot^m, 
I  was  stunned  by  the  steadiness  of  the  Asquith  tem- 
per. 

I>et  it  not  be  inferred  that  I  am  ''riticising  them 
as  they  now  are,  or  that  their  attitude  towards  my- 

[209] 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

self  was  at  any  time  lacking  in  sympathy.  Blind- 
ness of  heart  does  not  imply  hardn«.'ss;  and  expres- 
sion is  a  matter  of  temperament  or  impidse;  but  it 
was  their  attitude  towards  life  that  was  different 
from  my  own.  They  over-valued  brains,  which  was 
a  strange  fault,  as  they  were  all  remarkably  clever. 
Hardly  any  Prime  JMinister  has  had  famous  chil- 
dren, but  the  Asquiths  were  all  c«>nspicuous  in  their 
different  ways:  Raymond  and  Violet  the  most  strik- 
ing, Arthur  the  most  capable,  Herbert  a  poet  and 
Cyril  the  shyest  and  the  rarest. 


'I    i:. 


1    I    ll 


,1  :l| 


Cys  Asquith,  who  was  the  youngest  of  the  family, 
combined  what  was  best  in  all  of  them  morally  and 
intellectually  and  possessed  what  was  finer  than 
brains. 

He  was  two,  when  his  mother  died,  and  a  clumsy 
ugly  little  boy  with  a  certain  amount  of  graceless 
obstinacy,  with  which  both  Tennants  and  Asquiths 
were  equally  endowed.  To  the  casual  observer  he 
would  have  appeared  less  like  me  than  any  of  my 
step-family,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  and  I  had 
the  most  in  common ;  we  shared  a  certain  spiritual 
foundation  and  moral  aspiration  that  solder  people 
together  through  life. 
[210] 


AN  AUTOBlv)GRAPIIV 

It  is  not  because  I  t<H)k  charge  of  him  at  an  early 
age  that  I  say  he  is  more  my  own  than  the  others, 
hut  because,  although  he  did  not  always  agree  with 
me,  he  never  misunderstcK.d  me.  He  said  at  Miir- 
ren  one  day,  when  he  was  seventeen  and  we  had 
been  talking  together  on  life  and  religion: 

"It  must  be  :urious  for  you,  Margot,  seeing  all 
of  us  laughing  at  things  that  make  you  cry." 

This  showed  remarkable  insight  for  a  schoolboy. 
When  I  look  at  his  wonderful  face  now  and  think 
of  his  appearance  at  the  time  of  our  marriage,  I  am 
reminded  of  the  Hans  Andersen  toad  with  the 
jewel  in  its  head,  but  the  toad  is  no  longer  there. 

I  have  a  dear  friend  called  liogie  Harris,*  who 
told  me  that,  at  a  ball  given  by  Con  and  Iloppy 
Manners,  he  had  seen  a  young  man  whose  face  had 
struck  him  so  much  that  he  looked  about  for  some 
one  in  the  room  to  tell  him  who  it  was.  That  young 
man  was  Cyril  Asquith. 

One  night  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  after  I  had 
heard  him  say  his  prayers  he  asked  me  to  read  the 
General  Confession  out  of  his  Prayer  Book  to  him. 
It  was  such  an  unusual  request  that  I  said : 

"Very  well,  darling,  I  will,  but  first  of  all  I  must 

•Mr.  H.  Harris,  of  Bedford  Square. 

[211] 


''  1 


MAUCiOT  ASQiriTII 

read  you    what  1  love  bes'  in  the  Prayer  Book." 

To  whicli  he  answered : 

"Oh,  do!    I  .should  like  that." 

I  put  a  eushion  behind  my  head  and,  lying  down 
beside  him,  read: 

"Lighten  our  darkness,  we  beseeeh  Thee,  () 
Lord;  and  by  Tliy  great  mercy  defend  us  from  all 
perils  and  dangers  of  this  night,  for  the  love  of 
Thine  only  Son,  our  Saviour  Jesus  Christ.    Amen." 

After  this  I  read  him  the  General  Confession, 
opening,  "We  have  erred  and  strayed  from  Thy 
ways  like  lost  sheep,"  and  ending,  "that  we  may 
hereafter  live  a  godly,  righteous,  and  sober  life." 
When  I  had  finished  I  said  to  him : 

'*^Vhat  do  you  take  sober  to  mean  here,  dar- 
ling?" 

Cys  {looking  furtively  at  mc  xdth  his  little  green 
eijcs) :  "It  does  not  mean  drunkenness."  {A  slight 
pause;  then  reflectivelij) :  "1  should  say  moderate 
living." 

I  told  the  children  one  day  to  collect  some  of 
their  toys  and  that  I  would  take  them  to  the  hos- 
pital, where  they  could  give  them  away  themselves. 
I  purposely  did  not  say  broken  toys;  and  a  few 
days  afterwards  I  was  invited  to  the  nursery.  On 
[212] 


"t*^'-    A 


AN  AUTOIJIOGKAPIIV 

arriving  upstairs  I  saw  that  Cys's  eyes  were  searlet; 
)|  and  set  oiit  in  pathetic  array  round  the  room  was 

a  large  family  of  monkeys  christened  hy  him  "the 
Thumhlekins."  They  were  what  he  loved  hest  in 
the  world.  I  observed  that  they  were  the  only  un- 
broken toys  that  were  brought  to  me;  and  he  was 
eyeing  his  treasures  with  anguish  in  his  soul.  I  was 
so  toucht  1  that  I  could  hardly  speak;  and,  when  1 
put  my  arms  round  his  neck,  he  burst  into  sobs: 

"Ma>  I  keep  one  monkey  .  .  .  «)nly  one.  Mar- 
got? .. .  Please?  . . .  Plcfuve,  Margot? .  . ." 

This  was  the  window  in  his  send  that  has  never 
been  closed  to  me.  For  many  years  during  a  dis- 
tinguished college  career  he  was  delicate,  but  since 
his  marriage  to  Miss  Ann  Pollock — a  daylight  crea- 
ture of  charm,  beauty  and  goodness — he  has  been 
happy  and  strong. 


My  stepdaughter  Violet — now  Lady  Bonham 
Carter — though  intensely  feminine,  would  have 
made  a  remarkable  man,  I  do  not  believe  there  is 
any  examination  she  could  not  have  passed  either  at 
a  public  school  or  a  university.  Born  without  shy- 
ness or  trepidation,  from  her  youth  upwards  she 
had  perfect  self-possession  and  j)atience.    She  loved 

[213] 


I    i 


MAIUJOT  ASQUITII 

dialectics  and  could  put  her  case  logically,  plausibly 
and  eloquently;  and,  although  quite  as  unemotional 
as  her  brothers,  she  had  more  enterprise  and  indig- 
nation. In  her  youtji  she  was  delicate,  and  what 
the  French  call  trds  pcrmncllc;  and  this  prevented 
her  going  through  the  mill  (.f  rivjdry  and  criticism 
which  had  been  the  daily  bread  of  my  girlhood. 

She  had  the  same  jjcnetrating  sense  of  humour 
as  her  brother  Raymond  and  (juite  as  much  pres- 
ence of  mind  in  retort.    Her  gift  of  expression  was 
amazing  and  her  memory  unrivalled.    My  daughter 
Elizabeth  and  she  were  the  only  girls  except  myself 
that  I  ever  met  who  were  real  politicians,  not  inter- 
ested merely  in  tl.  -  personal  side— whether  Mr.  B. 
or  C.  spoke  well  or  was  likely  to  get  promoted— but 
in  the  legislation  and  administration  of  Parliament; 
they  followed  and  knew  what  was  going  on  at  home 
and  abroad  and  enjoyed  frienc        s  with  most  of 
the  young  and  famous  men  of  the  day.    Violet  Bon- 
ham  Carter  has,  I  think,  a  great  political  future 
in  the  country  if  not  in  the  Commons.    She  is  a  nat- 
ural speaker,  easy,  eloquent,  witty,  short  and  of  im- 
perturbable sang-froid. 

J-^ife  in  the  House  is  neither  healthy,  useful  nor 
appropriate  for  a  woman;  and  the  functions  of  a 
[214] 


m  J  I,,    ■♦.■sii   -?.c     i 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAFMIY 


mother  and  a  rTiomlKr  of  I'arliarjicnt  nrc  not  com- 
patible This  was  one  of  the  reasons  why  my  hus- 
hatul  and  I  were  a^'ainst  ^'ivin/;  the  framhise  to 
women.  Violet  is  a  real  mother  and  feels  the  prob- 
lem aeutely,  but  hhe  is  a  real  Liberal  also  and,  with 
gifts  as  eonspieiioiis  as  hers,  she  must  inevitably  ex- 
ereise  a  wide-spread  political  inHiience.  Iler 
speeches  in  her  father's  election  at  Paisley,  in  Feb- 
ruary of  this  year,  brought  her  before  »  general  as 
well  as  intellectual  audience  from  which  she  can 
never  retire;  and,  whenever  she  appears  on  a  plat- 
form, the  pul)lic  shout  from  every  part  of  the  hall 
calling  on  her  to  speak. 

•  •••••« 

Raymond  Asquith  was  born  on  the  bth  of  No- 
vember, 1878,  and  was  killec  "fhting  against  the 
CJermans  before  his  regiment  had  been  in  action  ten 
minutes,  on  the  15th  of  September,  1916. 

He  was  intellectually  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished young  men  of  his  day  and  beautiful  to  look 
at,  added  to  which  he  was  light  in  hand,  brilliant  in 
answer  and  interested  in  affairs.  When  he  went  to 
Balliol  he  cultivated  a  kind  of  cynicism  which  was 
an  endless  source  of  delight  to  the  young  people 
around  him;  in  a  good-humoured  way  he  made  a 

[215] 


\9 


•jSTi-t 


1^  : 


lil 


V'  rl 


MAlKiOT  ASQiriTII 

hutt  of  (J()(l  and  sniikd  ut  man.     If  ht-  had  htm 
really  ktrri  ahout  any  one  thin^     law  or  litcraluic 
-    he  would  havi-  made  the  world  rin^  with  his  name, 
hut  he  larked  temperament  and  a  eertain  sort  of 
imagination  and  was  without  amhition  of  any  kind. 
His  edueation  was  started  hy  a  W(.man  in  a  day- 
sehool  at  Hampstead;  from  there  he  took  a  Win- 
ehester  scholarship  and  he  heeame  a  seholar  of 
Halliol.     At  Oxford  he  went  from  triumph  to  tri- 
umph.    Uv  took  a  first  in  elassieal  moderations  in 
1HI)9;  first-class  Utcnt  liiimaiiion.s  in   1901;  first- 
class  jurisprudence  in  lt>02.     Uv  won  the  Craven. 
Ireland,  Derhy  and  Ehhm  scholarships.    He  was 
J»resident  of  the  Union  and  heeame  a  I'ellow  of  All 
Souls  in  1902;  and  after  he  left  Oxford  he  was 
called  to  the  Bar  in  1904-. 

In  spite  of  this  record,  a  more  mcxlest  fellow 
ahf)ut  his  own  achievements  never  lived. 

Raymond  was  charming  and  good-tempered  from 
his  hoyhood  and  I  only  rememher  him  once  in  his 
life  getting  angry  with  me.  He  had  heen  urged 
to  go  into  politics  hy  hoth  his  wife  and  his  father 
and  had  heen  invited  hy  the  Liberal  Association 
of  a  northern  town  to  hecome  their  candidate.  He 
was  complaining  about  it  one  day  to  me,  saying 
[21G1 


•fli.j^  i: 


AN  AirTOHKKJHAI'HV 

how  (lull,  how  stupid,  how  horijiK  the  uvcraKC  con- 
stituents   of   all    electorates    were;    I    told    him    I 
thought  n  eloser  eont.iet  with  eoinnion  people  «,„iid 
turn  out  not  ..rdy  more  inleresting  and  dtli^r|,f fiil 
than  he  imagined,  hut  that  it  would  he  the  vnaking 
of  him.    He  llare.l  up  at  onee  and  made  nje  ai)pear 
infinitely  ridieidous,  hul  heing  on  sure  gronntl  I 
listened  with  amusement  and  indiHerenee;  the  dis- 
eussion  ended  amieahly,  neither  of  us  having  de- 
viated hy  a  hair's  l)reath  from  our  original  posi- 
tions.   He  and  I  seldom  got  on  eaeh  other's  nerves, 
tli(;iigh  two  more  different  beings  never  lived.    His 
nretie  analysis  of  what  he  looked  upon  as  "eant" 
always  stirred  his  listeners  to  a  high  pitch  of  en- 
thusiasm. 

One  day  when  he  was  at  liome  for  his  holidays 
and  we  were  all  having  tea  together,  to  amuse  the 
children  I  began  asking  riddles.  1  told  them  that  J 
had  only  guessed  one  in  my  life,  but  it  had  taken 
n.e  three  days.  They  asked  me  what  it  was,  and  I 
said: 

"\Vhat  is  it  that  God  has  never  seen,  that  kings 
see  seldom  and  that  we  see  every  day  ?" 
Raymond  instantly  answered: 
"A  juke." 

[217] 


;^r   i 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  felt  that  the  real  answer,  which  was  "an  equal," 
was  very  tepid  after  this. 

In  1907  he  married,  from  10  Downing  Street, 
Katherine  Horner,  a  beautiful  creature  of  character 
and  intellect,  as  lacking  in  fire  and  incense  as  him- 
self. Their  devotion  to  each  other  and  happiness 
was  a  perpetual  joy  to  me,  as  I  felt  that  in  some 
ways  I  had  contributed  to  it.  Katherine  was  the 
daughter  of  Laura's  greatest  friend,  Frances  Hor- 
ner, and  he  met  her  through  me. 

Raymond  found  in  both  his  mother-in-law  and 
Sir  John  Homer  friends  capable  of  appreciating 
his  fine  flavour.  He  wrote  with  ease  and  brilliance 
both  prose  and  poetry.  I  will  quote  two  of  his 
poems: 

In  Praise  of  Young  Girls 

Attend  my  Muse,  and,  if  you  can,  approve 
Whde  I  proclaim  the  "speeding  up"  of  Love; 

For  Love  and  Commerce  hold  a  common  creed 

The  scale  of  business  varies  with  the  speed; 
For  Queen  of  Beauty  or  for  Sausage  King 
The  customer  is  always  on  tlie  wing — 
Then  praise  the  nymph  who  regularly  earns 
Small  profits  (if  you  please)  but  quick  returns. 
Our  modish  Venus  is  a  bustling  minx, 
But  who  can  spare  the  time  to  woo  a  sphinx? 
When  JMona  Lisa  posed  with  rustic  guile 
[218] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  stale  enigma  of  her  simple  smile, 

Her  leisure  lovers  raised  a  pious  cheer 

While  the  slow  mischief  crept  from  ear  to  ear. 

Poor  listless  Lombard,  you  woidd  ne'er  engage 

The  brisker  beaux  of  our  mercurial  age 

A\  hose  lively  mettle  can  as  easy  brook 

An  epic  poem  as  a  lingering  "look — 

Our  modern  maiden  smears  the  twig  with  lime 

For  twice  as  many  hearts  in  half  the  time. 

Long  ere  the  circle  of  that  staid  grimace 

Has  wheeled  your  weary  dimples  into  place, 

Our  little  Chloe  (mark  the  nimble  fiend!) 

Has  raised  a  laugh  against  her  bosom  friend, 

Melted  a  marquis,  mollified  a  Jew, 

Kissed  every  member  of  the  Eton  crew. 

Ogled  a  Bishop,  quizzed  an  aged  peer. 

Has  danced  a  Tango  and  has  dropped  a  tear. 

Fresh  from  the  schoolroom,  pink  and  plump  and 

pert, 
Bedizened,  bouncing,  artful  and  alert. 
No  victim  she  of  vapours  and  of  moods 
Though  the  sky  falls  she's  "ready  with  the  goods". . 
Polite  or  gothic,  libertine  or  chaste. 
Supply  a  waspish  tongue,  a  waspish  waist, 
Astarte's  breast  or  Atalanta's  leg, 
liove  ready-made,  or  glamour  off  the  peg — 
Do  you  prefer:  "a  thing  of  dew  and  air"? 
Or  is  your  type  Poppa^a  or  Polaire? 
The  crystal  casket  of  a  maiden's  dreams. 
Or  the  last  fancy  in  cosmetic  creams? 
The  dark  and  tender  or  the  fierce  and  bright, 
Youth's  rosy  blush  or  Passion's  pearly  bite? 
You  hardly  know  perhaps;  but  Chloe  knows, 

[219] 


'II 


I     '  Si 


K  1 J  i   'Jl.i 


mi  I 


^  ;fp  t 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

And  pours  you  out  the  necessary  dose. 
Meticulously  measuring  to  scale 
The  cup  of  Circe  or  the  Holy  Grail— 
An  actress  she  at  home  in  every  role. 
Can  flout  or  flatter,  bully  or  cajole, 
And  on  occasion  by  a  stretch  of  art 
Can  even  speak  the  language  of  the  heart, 
Can  lisp  and  sigh  and  make  confused  replies, 
With  baby  lips  and  complicated  eyes, 
Indifferently  apt  to  weep  or  wink, 
Primly  pursue,  provocatively  shrink, 
Brazen  or  bashful,  as  the  case  require, 
Coax  the  faint  baron,  curb  the  bold  esquire, 
Deride  restraint,  but  deprecate  desire. 
Unbridled  yet  unloving,  loose  but  limp, 
Voluptuary,  virgin,  prude  and  pimp. 

Lines  to  a  young  Viscount,  who  died  at  Ox- 
ford, ON  THE  Morrow  of  a  Bump  Supper  (by  the 
President  of  his  College) 

Dear  Viscount,  in  whose  ancient  blood 
The  blueness  of  the  bird  of  March, 
The  vermeil  of  the  tufted  larch. 

Are  fused  in  one  magenta  flood. 

Dear  Viscount — ah!  to  me  how  dear. 
Who  even  in  thy  frolic  mood 
Discerned  (or  sometimes  thought  I  could) 

The  pure  proud  purpose  of  a  peer ! 

So  on  the  last  sad  night  of  all 
Erect  among  the  reeling  rout 
[220] 


)x- 

the 


w 


m 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

You  beat  your  tangled  music  out ' 
Lofty,  aloof,  viscontial. 

You  struck  a  bootbath  with  a  can, 

And  with  the  can  you  strucii  the  bath, 
There  on  the  yell        ,ravel  path. 

As  gentleman  to  gentleman. 

We  met,  we  stood,  we  faced,  we  talked 
While  those  of  baser  birth  withdrew ; 
I  told  you  of  an  Earl  I  knew ; 

You  said  you  thought  the  wine  was  corked; 

And  so  we  parted — on  my  lips 
A  li;  'it  farewell,  but  in  my  soul 
The  image  of  a  perfect  whole, 

A  Viscount  to  the  finger  tips 

An  image — Yes;  but  thou  art  gone; 
For  nature  red  in  tooth  and  claw 
Subsumes  under  an  f  qual  law 

Viscount  and  Iguanodon. 

Yet  we  who  know  the  Larger  Love, 
Which  separates  the  sheep  and  goats 
And  segregates  Scolecobrots,* 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove. 

Deem  that  in  His  mysterious  Day 

God  puts  the  Peers  ui)f)n  His  right. 
And  hides  the  poor  in  endless  night, 

For  thou,  my  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 

by*  wo^"^  ^""^  "*  ^^^^  Testament  meaning  people  who  are  eateo 

[221] 


i         1   'f;:    : 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

It  is  a  commonplace  to  say  after  a  man  is  dead 
that  he  could  have  done  anything  he  liked  in  life: 
it  is  nearly  always  exaggerated;  but  of  Raymond 
Asquith  the  phrase  would  have  been  true. 

His  oldest  friend  was  Harold  Baker,*  a  man 
whose  academic  career  was  as  fine  as  his  own  and 
whose  changeless  affection  and  intimacy  we  have 
long  valued;  but  Raymond  had  many  friends  as 
well  as  admirers.  His  death  was  the  first  great  sor- 
row in  my  stepchildren's  lives  and  an  anguish  to  his 
father  and  me.  The  news  of  it  caru*^  as  a  terrible 
shock  to  every  one.  My  husband's  natural  pride 
and  interest  in  him  had  always  been  intense  and  we 
were  never  tired  of  discussing  him  when  we  were 
alone:  his  personal  charm  and  wit,  his  little  faults 
and  above  all  the  success  which  so  certainly  awaited 
him.  Henry's  grief  darkened  the  waters  in  Down- 
ing Street  at  a  time  when,  had  they  been  clear,  cer- 
tain events  could  never  have  taken  place. 

When  Raymond  was  dying  on  the  battle-field  he 
gave  the  doctor  his  flask  to  give  to  his  father ;  it  was 
placed  by  the  side  of  his  bed  and  never  moved  till 
we  left  Whitehall. 

I  had  not  realised  before  how  powerless  a  step- 

•The  Rt.  Hon.  Harold  Baker. 

[222] 


■^f*.  •; .  * 


'm^mx' 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

wife  is  when  her  husband  is  innurnintr  the  death  of 
his  child;  and  not  for  the  first  time  I  proi'oundly 
wished  tliat  Raymond  liad  l)cen  my  son. 

Amonf?  the  many  letters  we  received,  this  one 
from  Sir  Edward  Grey,  the  present  Lord  Grey  of 
Fallodon,  gave  my  husband  the  most  comfort : 

33  EccLESTON  Square, 
S.W. 
Sept.  18,  1916. 
My  deab  Asquith, 

A  generation  has  passed  since  Raymond's 
mother  died  and  the  years  that  have  gone  make  me 
feel  for  and  with  you  even  more  than  I  would  then. 
Raymond  has  had  a  brilliant  and  unblemished  life; 
he  chose  with  courage  the  heroic  part  in  this  war  and 
he  has  died  as  a  hero. 

If  this  life  be  all,  it  matters  not  whether  its  years 
be  few  or  many,  but  if  it  be  not  all,  then  Raymond's 
life  is  part  of  something  that  is  not  made  less  by  his 
death,  but  is  made  greater  and  ennobled  by  the 
quality  and  merit  of  his  life  and  death. 

I  would  fain  believe  that  those  who  die  do  not 
suffer  in  the  separation  from  those  they  love  here; 
that  time  is  not  to  them  what  it  is  to  us,  and  that  to 
them  the  years  of  separation  be  they  few  or  many 
will  be  but  as  yesterday. 

If  so  tlien  only  for  us,  who  are  left  here,  is  the 
pain  of  suffering  and  the  weariness  of  waiting  and 

[223] 


■:;'i 


'Ji 


W  I  f  i 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

enduring;  the  one  beloved  is  spared  that.  There  is 
8ome  comfort  in  thinking  that  it  is  we,  not  the  loved 
one,  that  have  the  harder  part. 

I  grieve  especially  for  Raymond's  wife,  whose 
suffering  I  fear  must  be  what  is  unbearable.  I  hope 
the  knowledge  of  how  the  feelings  of  your  friends 
and  the  whole  nation,  and  not  of  this  nation  only, 
for  you  is  quickened  and  goes  out  to  you  will  help 
you  to  continue  the  public  work,  which  is  now  more 
than  ever  necessary,  and  will  give  you  strength. 
Your  courage  I  know  never  fails. 

Yours  affectionately, 

Edavahd  Grey. 

Raymond  Asquith  was  the  bravest  of  the  brave, 
nor  did  he  ever  complain  of  anything  that  fell  to  his 
lot  while  he  was  soldiering. 

It  might  have  been  written  of  him: 

He  died 
As  one  that  had  been  studied  in  his  death 
To  throw  away  the  dearest  thing  he  own'd. 
As  'twere  a  careless  trifle. 

— Macbeth,  Act  I.,  sc.  iv. 


Our  second  son,  Herbert,  began  his  career  as  a 

lawyer.     He  had  a  sweet  and  gentle  nature  and 

much  originality.     He  was  a  poet  and  wrote  the 

following  some  years  before  the  Great  War  of 

[2241 


!:.i;l 


H 


% 


PBINCESS   HIBESCO,  MANtioT   ASUI  ITIl's  ONIV    DA  I  <i  IITDK.   WHO 
MAKHIFl)  I'lllMF  BIIIKSdI.  HIM  Wrw    IIII'IIPAI  \l 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

1914,  through  which  he  served  from  the  first  day 
to  the  last: 

The  Volunteer* 

Here  lies  a  clerk  who  half  his  life  had  spent 
Toiling  ut  ledgers  in  a  city  grey, 
Thinking  that  so  his  days  would  drift  away 
With  no  lance  broken  in  life's  tournament; 
Yet  ever  'twixt  the  book  and  his  bright  eyes 
The  gleaming  eagles  of  the  legions  came, 
Ami  horsemen,  charging  under  phantom  skies. 
Went  thundering  past  beneath  the  oriflamme. 

And  now  those  waiting  dreams  are  satisfied, 
P'rom  twilight  to  the  halls  of  dawn  he  went; 
His  lance  is  broken — but  he  lies  content 
With  that  high  hour,  he  wants  no  recompense. 
Who  found  his  battle  in  the  last  resort, 
Nor  needs  he  any  hearse  to  bear  him  hence. 
Who  goes  to  join  the  men  at  Agincourt. 

He  wrote  this  when  he  was  in  Flanders  in  the 
war: 

The  Falij:n  Spire* 
(A  Flemish  Village) 

That  spirt  is  gone  that  slept  for  centuries, 

Mirroi°d  among  the  lilies,  calm  and  low; 

And  now  tie  water  holds  but  empty  skies 

Through  which  the  rivers  of  the  thunder  flow. 

•Reprinted  from  The  Volunteer  and  other  Po^mt,  by  Und  permis 
)n  of  Messrs.  Sidgwick  &  Jackson. 


sion 


[225] 


MARrOT  ASQUITH 

The  church  lies  broken  near  the  fallen  spire 

I  or  here,  amon^  these  old  and  human  thinffs. 

Death  sweeps  alon^  the  street  with  feet  of  fire 
And  goes  upon  his  way  with  moaning  win^. 

On  I^avements  by  the  kneeling  herdsmen  worn 
1  he  drifting  fleeces  of  the  shells  are  rolled • 

Above  the  Saints  a  village  Christ  forh.rn, 

Wounded  again,  l(K)ks  down  upon  His  fol'' 

And  silence  follows  fast:  no  evening  peace 

But  leaden  stillness,  when  the  thunder  wanes. 

Haunting  the  slender  branches  of  the  trees 
And  settling  low  upon  the  listless  plains. 

"Beb,"  as  we  called  him,  married  Lady  Cynthia 
Charteris,  a  lovely  niece  of  Lady  de  Vesci  and 
daughter  of  another  beloved  and  interesting  frie  id 
of  mine,  the  present  Countess  of  Wemyss. 

Our  th-d  son,  Arthur  Asquith,  was  one  of  the 
great  so  .ts  of  the  war.  He  married  Betty,  the 
daught  of  my  greatest  friend.  Lady  Manners,  a 
woman  who  has  never  failed  me  in  affection  and 
Joya'ty. 

Arthur  Asquith  joined  the  Royal  Naval  Division 
GU  its  formation  in  September,  1914,  and  was  at- 
tached at  first  to  the  "Anson,"  and  during  the 
greater  part  of  his  service  to  the  "Hood"  Battalion. 
[226] 


I  -    I 


I  n 


•wm^f  lyiL.-^SMT'- 


1 


».l 


AX  AUTOIUOCJHAPIIY 

In  the  early  days  of  Ottoher.  lOU.  he  t.K)k  part  in 
the  operations  at  Antwerp  atnl.  after  further  train- 
ing at  home  in  the  eanip  at  lilandfcu-d,  went  in  Feb- 
ruary.  1915,  with  his  battalion  to  the  Dardanelles. 
M'here  they  formed  part  of  the  Seeond  Naval  Bri- 
gade. He  was  in  all  the  fiRhting  on  the  Gallipoli 
peninsula  and  was  wounded,  but  returned  to  duty 
and  was  one  of  the  last  to  embark  on  the  final  evacu- 
ation of  Ilelles,  in  January,  1910. 

In  the  following  May  the  Naval  Division  joined 
the  army  in  France,  becoming  the  G3rd  Division, 
and  the  'Hood"  Battalion  (now  commanded  by 
Commander  IVeyberg,  V.  C.)  formed  part  of  the 
189th  Brigade. 

In  the  Battle  of  the  Ancre  (February,  1917) 
Arthur  Asquith  was  severely  wounded  and  was 
awarded  the  D.S.O. 

In  the  fiJlowing  April,  Commander  Freyberg 
having  been  promoted  to  be  a  Brigadier,  Arthur 
Asquith  took  ov^r  the  command  of  the  "Hood" 
Battalion  and  played  a  leadin^^  part  in  the  opera- 
tions against  (iavrelle,  taking  the  mayor's  house 
(which  was  the  key  to  the  position)  by  assault  and 
capturing  the  German  garrison.    It  was  largely  due 

[227] 


iJ& 


1     f 


]\l\ 


MAKCJOT  ASgriTH 

to  him  that  GnvrelU  was  taken;  and  he  was  awankd 
a  bar  to  his  D.S.O. 

In  CK'toher,  1917.  in  the  Hattle  of  Passilicnda.i.- 
thr  X;ival  Division  were  heavily  engaged,  Tlie 
follctwiii^  account  of  what  happened  near  I'oelcap- 
pelle  (()et()!«'r  2()th)  is  taken  from  the  Ili/itortf  of 
the  lioyal  Nnval  Diviifion,  by  Siib-IJeuttnants  Try 
and  McMillan: 

On  aeconnt  of  the  serious  losses  in  officers,  the 
four  battalions  were  getting  <nit  of  Iian(l  wht-n  Com- 
mander Asquith.  like  the  lK)rn  Hj;ht(  r  that  he  is, 
came  forward  and  saved  the  situation.  He  placed 
liis  battalion  in  the  most  advantageous  positions  to 
meet  any  counter-attacks  that  ,iiij,'lit  de\eloj). 
That  done,  in  spite  of  heavy  artillery  and  niaehine- 
^m  fire,  he  passed  from  end  to  end  of  the  line  we 
were  holding  and  superintended  the  consolidation 
of  our  gains.  In  addition,  he  established  liaison 
with  the  Canadians  on  our  right,  and  thus  closed  a 
breach  w'lich  might  have  caused  us  infinite  trouble 
and  been  the  source  of  our  imdoing. 

Arthur  Asdijith  v%as  reeomnii  nded  for  the  V.C. 
(he,  in  fact,  received  a  second  bar  to  his  D.S.O.) ; 
and  these  are  the  terms  of  the  official  recommenda- 
tion : 

Near  Poelcappclle,  during  the  operations  of 
October  2Gth-27th.  i917.  Comnianc'  r  Asquith  dis- 

[2281 


if 


;:.  n 


?«wf  ••'ite^'?»r'%s\ 


.-^,   : 


i    .r 


AN  ArTOHKKJRAPHV 

;)!!ivc<l  the  ^rcatt-st  hrnvt-ry.  initiative  un<f  splendid 
Kaciership.  utid  by  his  moriiiaissanci'  d   the  liunt 
iin.-  made  undir  li-avy  fire,  cuntrilujf.  d  iniicli  val- 
iial)Ic  infonnution  which  made  the  siiccessfnl  cnn- 
tiniiaiK'c  of  the  operatrnns   pds.sihle.     Dmiii^r  ||n_ 
mnrnin/Lf  of  the  2»ith,  when  no  news  was  fortheoniin/,' 
of  the  position  «)f  the  attacking  troops,  t'omiiiander 
As<|iiith  went  forward,  through  heavy  fire,  roiuid 
the  front  positions,  and  heedless  of  personal  dan^'er. 
found  out  our  dispositions,  got  into  touch  with  the 
troops  on  the  right,  and  returned  after  some  hours 
with  most  valuable  information.    On  the  niglit  of 
the  same  .lay,  he  went  forward  alone  i"   Itright 
moonlight  and  explored  the  ground  in  thi        inity 
of  V'arlet  Farm,  where  the  situation  \v,i>  n,,t     lean 
He  was  oliserved  by  the  enen>\ ,  but,  in  spitt  of 
he;!vy  riHe  and  maehine-gun  tire  direeted  at  him, 
and  the  fact  that  the  going  was  necessarijv  slow,  ow- 
ing to  the  awful  state  of  the  ground,  he  approached 
Varlet  F'arm  then  reported  to  be  in  the  hands  of 
the  enemy.    Entering  a  concrete  building  alone  he 
found  it  occupied  by  a  small  British  garrix.n.  who 
uerc  exhaust.  (1   and   almost   without   animunition 
and  the  most  of  them  wounded.    After  investigat- 
ing th.'  ground  thor.  ughly  he  returned  and  led  up 
three  pliitoons  of  a  copipany  of  this  battalion  and 
relieved  the  garrison.     He  superintended  the  dis- 
posal of  the  troops,  putting  one  plUoon  in  the  build- 
ing as  garrison  and  placing  the  « ther  two  platoons 
on   each  flank.     A   very  important   position  was 
th(  refore  kept  entirely  in  our  hand>,  owing  to  mag- 
niheent  bravery,  leadership  and  utter  disregard  of 

[229] 


^ 


I 


I. 


1  J  i 

'I 


.  , 


I 


11 


!  S 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

his  own  personal  safety.  This  example  of  bravery 
and  cool  courage  displayed  throughout  the  opera- 
tions by  Commander  iVsquith  encouraged  the  men 
to  greater  efforts,  and  kept  up  their  moral.  His 
valuable  reconnaissance,  the  manner  in  which  he 
led  his  men  and  his  determination  to  hold  the 
ground  gained,  contributed  very  largely  to  the  suc- 
cess of  the  operations. 

On  December  16th,  1917,  he  was  appointed  Brig- 
adier to  command  the  189th  Brigade;  and  a  few 
days  later,  in  reconnoitring  the  position,  he  was 
again  severely  wounded.  His  leg  had  to  be  ampu- 
tated and  he  was  disabled  from  further  active  ser- 
vice in  the  war. 

I  never  saw  Arthur  Asquith  lose  his  temper  i>r 
think  of  himself  in  my  life. 

I  look  around  to  see  what  child  of  which  friend 
is  left  to  become  the  wife  of  my  son  Anthony;  and 
I  wonder  whether  she  will  be  as  virtuous,  loving  and 
good-looking  as  my  other  daughters  in-law. 

We  were  all  wonderfully  iiappy  together,  but, 
looking  back,  I  think  I  was  far  from  clever  with 
my  stepchildren;  they  grew  up  good  and  success- 
ful independently  of  me. 

In  consequence  of  our  unpopularity  in  Peebles- 
[230] 


xW^ta.    • 


MMH 


^tm 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

shire,  I  had  no  opportunity  of  meeting  other  young 
people  in  their  homes;  antl  I  knew  no  family  ex- 
cept my  own.  The  wealth  of  art  and  music,  the 
luxury  of  flowers  and  colour,  the  stretches  of  wild 
country  both  in  Scotland  and  high  Leicestershire, 
which  had  made  up  my  life  till  I  married,  had  not 
qualified  me  to  understand  children  reared  in  dif- 
ferent circumstances.  I  would  not  perhaps  have 
noticed  many  trifles  in  my  step-family,  had  I  not 
been  so  much  made  of,  so  overloved,  caressed  and 
independent  before  my  marriage. 

Every  gardener  prunes  the  roots  of  a  tree  before 
it  is  transplanted,  but  no  one  had  ever  pruned  me. 
If  you  have  been  sunned  through  and  through  like 
an  apricot  on  a  wall  from  your  earliest  days,  you 
are  over-sensitive  to  any  withdrawal  of  heat.  This 
had  been  clearly  foreseen  by  my  friends  and  they 
were  genuinely  anxious  about  the  happiness  and 
future  of  my  stepchildren.  I  do  not  know  which 
of  us  had  been  considered  the  boldest  in  our  mar- 
riage, my  husband  or  myself;  and  no  doubt  step- 
relationships  should  not  be  taken  in  hand  unad- 
visedly, lightly,  or  wantonly,  but  reverently,  dis- 
creetly, and  soberly.    In  every  one  of  the  letters 

[231] 


!l 


i 


■ 


m 


^M 


■  % 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

congratulating  me  there  had  been  a  note  of  warn- 
ing. 

Mr.  Gladstone  WTote: 

^r       .  ^^^.V  ^th,  1804. 

Y  ou  have  a  great  and  noble  work  to  perform. 
It  IS  a  work  far  beyond  human  strength.  May  the 
strength  which  is  more  than  human  be  abundantly 
granted  you. 

Ever  yours, 

W.  E.  G. 

I  remember,  on  receiving  this,  saying  to  my  be- 
loved friend,  Con  Manners: 

"Gladstone  thinks  my  fitness  to  be  Henry's  wife 
should  be  prayed  for  like  the  clergy:  'Almighty  and 
Everlasting  God,  who  alone  workest  great  mar- 
vels. .  .  .'" 

John  Morley  wrote: 

95  Elm  P.vrk  Gardens, 

South  Kensington, 

S.W. 

,-  „       ,  iVarc// 7, 1894. 

My  dear  Miss  Margot, 

Now  that  the  whirl  of  congratulations  must  be 

ceasmg,  here  are  mine,  the  latest  but  not  the  least 

warm  of  them  all.  You  are  going  to  marry  one  of 

the  finest  men  in  all  the  world,  with  a  great  store  of 

sterhng  gifts  both  of  head  and  heart,  and  with  a  life 

before  him  of  '"'.e  highest  interest,  importance  and 

[232] 


11         i 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

power.  Such  a  man  is  a  companion  that  any  wo- 
man might  envy  you.  I  daresay  you  know  this 
without  my  telJmg  you.  On  the  other  part,  1  will 
not  add  myself  to  those  impertinents  who— as  I 
understand  you  to  report— wish  vou  "to  improve  " 
1  very  respectfully  wish  nothing  of  the  sort  Few 
qualities  are  better  worth  leaving  as  they  are  than 
vivacity,  wit  freshness  of  mind,  gaietv  and  pluck. 
'  ray  keep  them  all.    Don't  improve  by  an  atom 

Circumstances  may  have  a  lesson  or  two  to  teach 
you,  but  tis  only  the  dull  who  don't  learn,  and  1 
liave  no  fear  but  that  such  a  pair  have  happy  years 
in  front  of  them.  ' 

You  ask  for  my  blessing  and  you  have  it.  Be 
sure  that  I  wish  you  as  unclouded  a  life  as  can  be 
the  lot  of  woman,  and  I  hope  you  will  always  let 
me  count  myself  your  friend.  I  possess  'some 
aphorisms  on  the  married  state— but  they  will  keep. 
1  only  let  them  out  as  occasion  comes. 

Always  yours  sincerely, 

John  Mobij^y. 
• 
Looking  back  now  on  the  first  years  of  my  mar- 
riage, I  cannot  exaggerate  the  gratitude  which  I 
feel  for  the  tolerance,  patience  and  loyalty  that  my 
stepchildren  extended  to  a  stranger;  for,  althougli 
I  introduced  an  enormous  amount  of  fun,  beauty 
and  movement  into  their  lives,  I  could  not  replace 
what  they  had  lost. 
Henry's  first  wife,  Helen  Asquith,  was  an  ex- 

[233] 


}m 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

ceptionally  pretty,  refined  woman;  never  dull,  never 
artificial,  and  of  single-minded  goodness;  she  was  a 
wonderfnl  wife  and  a  devoted  mother,  but  was  with- 
out illusions  and  even  less  adventurous  than  he. 
children.  She  told  me  in  one  of  our  talks  how  much 
she  regretted  that  her  husband  had  taken  silk  and 
was  in  the  House  of  Commons,  at  which  I  said  in 
a  glow  of  surprise: 

"But  surely,  Mrs.  Asquith,  you  are  ambitious  for 
your  husband!    Why,  he's  a  •wonderful  man!" 

This  conversation  took  place  in  Grosvenor 
Square  the  second  time  that  we  met,  when  she 
brought  her  little  girl  to  see  me.  Violet  was  aged 
four  and  a  self-possessed,  plump,  cle\er  little  Crea- 
ture, with  lovely  hair  hanging  in  Victorian  ringlets 
down  her  back. 

The  children  were  not  like  Helen  Asquith  in  ap- 
pearance, except  Raymond,  who  had  her  beautiful 
eyes  and  brow;  but,  just  as  they  had  none  of  their 
father's  emotion  and  some  of  his  intellect,  they  all 
inherited  their  mother's  temperament,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Violet,  who  was  more  susceptible  to  the 
new  environment  than  her  brothers.    The  greatest 
compliment  that  was  ever  paid  to  my  appearance— 
and  one  that  helped  me  most  when  I  felt  discour- 
[234] 


3 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

aged  in  my  early  married  lift--was  what  Helen 
Asquith  said  to  my  Imshand  and  lie  repeated  to  me: 
"There  is  something  a  little  noble  afwiit  Margot 
Tennant's  expression." 



If  my  stepchildren  were  patient  with  me,  I  dare 
not  say  what  their  father  was:  there  are  some  reser- 
vations the  boldest  biographer  has  a  right  to  claim; 
and  I  shall  (.nly  write  of  my  husband's  character— 
his  loyalty,  lack  of  vanity,  freedom  from  self, 
warmth  and  width  of  sympathy— in  connection  with 
politics  and  not  with  myself;  but  since  I  have 
touched  on  this  subject  1  will  give  one  illustration 
of  his  nature. 

When  the  full  meaning  of  the  disreputable  Gen- 
eral Election  of  1918,  with  its  promises  and  pre- 
tensions and  all  its  silly  and  false  cries,  was  burnt 
into  me  at  Paisley  in  tlv  year  of  1920  by  our  Coali- 
tion opponent  re-repea     ig  them,  I  said  to  Henry: 

"Oh,  if  I  had  only  quietly  dropped  all  my  friends 
of  German  name  when  the  war  broke  out  and  never 
gone  to  say  good-bye  to  those  poor  Liclmowskys, 
these  ridiculous  lies  propagated  entirely  for  politi- 
cal purposes  would  never  have  bt  n  told;  and  this 

[235] 


«•! 


MffBlftfl 


i  :: 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

c™i  pro.Ger.an  stunt  could  not  have  been 

To  which  he  replied: 

"God  forbid  I    I  would  rather  ten  thousand  times 
be  out  of  public  life  for  ever." 


[236] 


■■«lBCi'»v'    '    i-SJ   .1 


f 


CHAPTER  VII 


4 


TyrV  husband  was  Home  Secretary  when  we 
*  niarned,  and  took  a  serious  interest  in  our 
.r.»<m  system,  which  he  found  far  from  satis- 
»  to^.    He  though,  that  it  would  be  a  «oo,I  thing 

Wore  we  were  known  by  sight,  to  pay'a  snrprife' 
>.s,t  to  the  conv,ct-pr,sons  and  that,  if  could  see 
the  women  convicts  and  he  eould  see  the  men 
pnvately.  he  would  be  able  to  examine  the  condi- 
t.«ns  under  which  they  served  their  sentences  better 
than  if  we  were  to  go  officially. 

I  was  expecting  my  baby  in  about  three  montin 
"hen  we  made  this  expedition. 

"      a    H    r.™""  "'  °™  •"  ""  oon..iet-prisons 
aud  at  that  t,me,  look  in  both  men  and  won.en. 

I  he  governor  scrutinised  Henry's  fine  ,.  riting  on 

[237] 


I 


;i  ' 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

iwr  permits:  he  recoived  us  dryly,  hut  without  sus- 
picion;  and  we  divide.!  off,  having  settled  to 
meet  at  the  front  door  after  an  hour  and  a  half's 
inspection. 

The  matron  who  accompanied  me  was  a  power- 
ful, intelligent-looking  woman  of  hard  countenance 
and  short  speech.  I  put  a  f-w  stupid  questions  to 
her  ahout  the  prison:  how  many  convicts  they  had, 
if  the  food  was  good,  etc. 

She  asked  me  if  I  would  care  to  see  Mrs.  May- 
brick,  an  American  criminal,  who  had  been  charged 
with  murder,  but  sentenced  for  manslaughter.  This 
woman  had  poisoned  her  husband  with  mild  in- 
sistence by  arsenic,  but,  as  he  was  taking  this  for 
his  health  at  the  time  of  his  death,  the  evidence  was 
conflicting  as  to  where  he  stopped  and  she  began. 
She  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  lady  and  beauti- 
ful; and  petitions  for  her  reprieve  were  sent  to  us 
signed  by  every  kind  of  person  from  the  United 
States.    I  told  the  matron  I  would  see  her  and  was 
shown  into  her  cell,  where  I  found  her  sitting  on  a 
stool  against  a  bleak  desk,  at  which  she  was  reading. 
I  notec^  her  fine  eyes  and  common  mouth  and, 
apologi.  ■    t,  said: 

"I  hope  you  will  not  mind  a  stranger  coming  to 
[288] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

enquire  how  you  are  gettlnff  on."  adding.  "Have 
you  any  complaints  to  make  of  the  prison?  " 

The  matron  had  left  me  and.  the  d(K>rs  heitig 
thick,  r  felt  pretty  sure  she  could  not  hear  what  we 
were  saying. 

^^  Mhs.  Maybrick  (shrugging  her  gliouldcrH): 
"The  hutter  here  is  abominable  and  we  are  only 
g|^en  two  books-77/r  Pilgnm's  Progress  and  the 
Bible-and  what  do  you  say  to  our  looking- 
glasses?"  {pointing  to  a  little  glass,  four  inches 
big.  in  a  deep  thiek  frame  hanging  on  a  peg). 
"Do  you  know  why  it  is  so  small?" 
M argot:  "No." 

Mrs.  INIaybrick:  "Because  the  women  who  want 
to  kill  themselves  can't  get  their  heels  m  to  break  the 
glass;  if  they  could  they  would  cut  their  throats. 
The  men  don't  have  looking-glasses  at  all." 

Maroot:  "Do  you  think  they  would  like  to  have 
them?" 

Mrs.  Maybrick  (shrugging  her  shoulders  again 
and  fingering  her  blue  cotton  blouse) :  "I  don't 
suppose  they  care!  I'm  sure  no  one  could  wish  to 
see  themselves  with  cropped  hair  and  in  these 
hideous  clothes." 

Mahgot:  "I  think  that  I  could  get  you  every 

[289] 


1 


I 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

kind  of  hook,  if  you  like  reading,  nnd  will  tell  me 
what  you  want." 

Mhs.  Maybrick  (with  a  sudden  laugh  and  look- 
ing at  me  xcith  a  contemptuous  expremon  tchich 
made  mi/  heart  ache):  "Oh.  no,  you  couldn't  I 
Never  mind  me!  But  you  might  tell  them  about 
the  butter." 

•  •••.., 

I  did  not  find  Mrs.  Maybrick  Kympathique  and 
shortly  after  this  rejoined  the  matron.  It  was  the 
first  time  I  had  seen  a  prison  and  my  heart  and 
mind  were  moved  as  we  went  from  cell  to  cell 
nodding  to  the  grey  occupants. 

"Have  you  any  very  bad  cases?"  I  asked.  "I 
mean  any  woman  who  is  difficult  and  unhappy?" 

Matron  :  "Yes,  there  is  one  woman  here  who  has 
been  sitting  on  the  floor  for  the  last  three  days  and. 
except  a  little  water,  I  don't  think  she  has  swallowed 
a  mouthful  of  food  since  she  came  in.     She  is  a 
violent  person  and  uses  foul  language.     I  do  not 
think  you  had  better  see  her." 
Margot:  "Thank  you,  I  am  not  at  all  afraid. 
Please  take  me  to  her  cell." 
Matron  (stiU  reluctant  and  eyeing  my  figure): 
"She  may  not  speak  to  you,  but  if  she  does  it  might 
[240] 


m 


"I 


.MAII1.,.|    A!t<4l  ITII   AMI   IIKK  SOV,  AXTHONV,   WHOSE  ISFXriVCt 
<>VKH    lltK.  «Ili;  SAVS   IN    IIIK  IIIARY.    HAS  BKK  N    UKKATER 
■1"A\    I  HAT  (IK  ANV  IITIIIM    111  MAN   BEINO 


1 


t, 


^n,.' 


If?   I 


K   «i 


1i      t 


•*'• 

i  ;,•    1 

"  it  '1'     ! 

If  'i  ^* 
ill'  li 

■^.I^W 


AX  ArrOBKHiHAPUV 

give  you  u  shock.    D«)  y«m  think  yoii  are  wise  to  g(  ■ 
in  your  present   oiwlition?" 

MaH(«)t:  -Oh.  that  s  all  ri^ht,  thanks!  I  .ini 
not  easily  shoeked." 

When  we  eanie  to  tJie  ecll,  1  Umk  the  preeaution 
of  telling  the  mat-on  she  eould  have  nie.  as  allir 
this  visit  I  should  have  to  join  niy  hushand  and  I 
eoiiM  find  my  way  to  the  front  hall  hy  myself.  She 
opened  the  d()t)r  in  silenee  atid  let  me  in. 

Crouching  on  the  stone  floor,  in  an  animal  atti- 
tude, I  saw  a  woman.  She  did  not  look  up  when 
I  went  in  nor  turn  when  T  shut  the  door.  Her 
eyebrows  almost  joined  j',  v.-  a  scjuare-tipped 
nose;  and  her  eyes,  j,;  .1..;  ►;  .  .<^  hlaek  lashes. 
were  fixed  upon  the  ^'.onu-l  ih  v  hair  grew  well, 
out  of  a  beautiful  ii  ;•  ;;  i  u  i  ;:  red  curve  of 
her  mouth  gave  ex;»ii,>  sm  '  ;  ,,  -,;  hke  face.  I 
had  never  seen  a  more  st-':     v-    <    Ir-j,'  creature. 

After  my  usual  apology  aiij  n  gentle  recitative 
of  why  I  had  come,  she  turned  what  little  I  could 
see  of  her  face  away  from  me  and  whatever  I 
suggested  after  that  was  greeted  with  impenetrable 
silence. 

At  last  I  said  to  her: 

"It  is  so  difficult  for  me  to  stand  and  talk  while 

[241] 


Ui 


if.! 


f  I 


r  -' 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

you  are  sitting  on  the  ground.  Won't  you  get  up? 
No  answer.  At  this-being  an  active  woman- 
I  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  stone  floor  and  tool 
her  hand  .n  both  of  mine.  She  did  not  withdrav 
It.  but  hfted  her  lashes  to  look  at  me.  I  noted  the 
sullen  exhausted  expression  in  her  grey  eyes;  mv 
heart  beat  at  the  beauty  of  her  face. 

"Why  don't  you  speak  to  me?"  I  said  "I 
might,  for  all  you  know,  be  able  to  do  a  great  deal 
for  you." 

This  was  greeted  by  a  faint  gleam  and  a  pro- 
longed  shake  of  the  head. 

Margot:  "You  look  very  young.  What  is  it 
you  did,  that  brought  you  into  this  prison," 

My  question  seemed  to  surprise  her  and  after  a 
moment's  silence  she  said: 
"Don  •  you  know  why  I  am  sentenced?" 
Maroot:  "No;  and  you  need  not  tell  me  if  you 
don  t  want  to.     How  long  are  you  here  for?  " 
iHE  Woman  (in  «  pnictratiug  vmcc) :  "Life»" 
Maroot:  "That's  impossible;  no  one  is  punished 
for  life  unless  they  commit  murder;  and  even  then 
the  sentence  is  always  shortened." 

The  Womax:  "Shortened  in  time  for  what? 
For  your  death  and  burial?    Perhaps  you  don't 
[242] 


^MiSS^ 


'♦ffc. 


HOME  SECRETARFES:  PAST  AND  PRESENT  DOWN  TO  H.  H    ASQUITH 

[243] 


T 


,i„ 


AX  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

know  how  kind  they  are  to  us  here!  No  one  is 
allowed  to  die  in  prison!  But  by  the  time  your 
health  is  gone,  your  hair  white  and  your  friends  are 
dead,  your  family  do  not  need  you  and  all  that  can 
be  done  for  you  is  done  bj'  charity.  You  die  and 
,g  your  eyes  are  closed  by  your  landlady." 

Maroot:  "Tell  me  what  y(m  did." 
The  Woman:  "Only  what  all  you  fashionaMe 
women  do  every  day.  ..." 
Maroot:  "What?" 

The  Woman:   "I   helped  those  who  were  in 
trouble  to  get  rid  of  their  babies." 
Maroot:  "Did  you  take  money  for  it?" 
The  Woman  :  "Sometimes  I  did  it  for  nothing." 
Maroot:  "What  son  of  women  did  you  help?" 
The  Woman:  "Oh,  quite  poor  women!" 
Maroot:  "When  you  charged  them,  how  much 
money  did  you  ask  for?" 

The  Woman:  "Four  or  five  pounds  and  often 
less." 

ALvrgot:  "Was  your  husband  a  respectable  man 
and  did  he  know  anything  about  it?" 

The  Woman:     "My  husband  was  highly  re- 
spected.    He  was  a  stone-mason,  and  well  to  do, 

[24.3] 


■P!iif«p**ij»i»ri 


MAHGOT  ASQUITH 

ana  knew  nothing  at  all  till  I  was  arrested. 

He  thought  I  made  money  sewing." 
Mahgot;  "Poor  man,  how  tragic!" 
After  this  rather  stupid  ejaculation  of  mine,  she 
relapsed  into  a  frozen  silence  and  I  got  up  off  the 
ground  and  asked  her  if  she  liked  lKH)ks.  No  an- 
swer. If  the  food  was  good?  No  answer.  If  her 
bed  was  clean  and  comfortable?  But  all  my  ques- 
tions were  in  vain.  At  last  she  broke  the  silence  by 
say  mg: 

"You  said  just  now  that  you  might  be  able  to 
help  me.  There  is  only  one  thing  in  the  world  that 
I  want,  and  you  could  not  help  to  get  it.  ...  No 
one  can  help  me.  .  .  ." 

Makgot:  'Tell  me  what  you  want.  How  can  I 
or  any  one  else  help  you  while  you  sit  on  the  ground, 
neither  speaking  nor  eating?  Get  up  and  I  will 
listen  to  you;  otherwise  I  shall  go  away." 

After  this  she  gr>t  up  stiffly  and  lifted  her  arms  in 
a  stretch  above  her  head,  showing  the  outline  of  her 
fine  bust.    I  said  to  her: 

"I  would  like  to  help  yoti." 

The  Woman-:     "1  want  to  see  one  person  and 
only  one.    I  think  of  nothing  else  ami  wonder  night 
and  day  how  it  could  be  managed." 
[246] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Margot:  "Tell  me  who  it  is,  this  one  person, 
that  you  think  of  and  want  so  much  to  see." 

The  Woman:    ''I  want  to  see  Mrs.  Asquith." 

Mahgot  {dumb  with  surprise) :    "WhyT' 

The  Woman:  "Because  she  is  only  just  mar- 
ried and  will  never  a^ain  have  as  much  influence 
over  her  husband  as  she  has  now;  and  I  am  told  she 
is  kind.  .  .  ." 

Margot  {moving  towards  her):  "I  am  Mrs. 
Asquith." 

At  this  the  woman  gave  a  sort  of  howl  and,  shiv- 
ering, with  her  teeth  set,  flung  herself  at  my  feet 
and  clasped  my  ankles  with  an  iron  clutch.  I  should 
have  fallen,  but,  loosening  her  hold  with  great  ra- 
pidity, she  stood  up  and,  facmg  me,  held  me  by  my 
shoulders.  The  door  opened  and  the  matron  ap- 
peared, at  which  the  woman  sprang  at  her  with  a 
tornado  of  oaths,  using  strange  words  that  I  had 
never  heard  before.  I  tried  to  silence  her,  but  in 
vain,  so  I  told  the  matron  that  she  might  go  and 
find  out  if  my  husband  was  ready  for  me.  She  did 
not  move  and  seemed  put  out  by  my  request. 

"I  really  think,"  she  said,  "that  you  are  extremely 
foolish  risking  anything  with  this  woman.' 

The  Woman    {in  a  penetrating  voice) :  "You 

[247] 


rim 


■,    I  I 


ii 


MARCOT  ASQUITH 

clear  out  and  ^o  to  helj  w  :h  von »    The 

*^  ^'^''*'°"'  «n^  yo.,  arc  not  f    ^'o,,  are  a r 

I  put  my  hand  over  her  mouth  and  said  I  would 
le  ve  ,er  for  ever  if  .he  did  not  stop  swearing.    Sh 
-t  down.    I  turned  to  the  n,atron  and  saidi 

\  ou  need  not  fear  for  u.e,  ii,ank  vou ;  we  prefer 
being  left  alone."  '  ^    ^ 

When  the  matron  had  shut  the  door,  the  woma.i 

w.th  arms  akimbo  and  her  le,.  apart,  looking  at  me 

mo  ute  face  and  strong,  y„ung  tigu.e,  that,  if  she 
wanted  to  prevent  me  getting  out  of  that  room 
alive,  she  could  easily  do  so. 
The  M^,max:  "You  heard  what  I  .aid    that 

husband  as  you  have  now.  so  just  hsten.    He  -s  all 
Powerf-i  and,  if  he  looks  into  my  case,  he  will  1 
hat  I  am  innocent  and  ought  to  be  let  out.    The 
ast  Home  Secretary  was  not  married  and  nev 
took  any  interest  in  us  p,K,r  women  " 

Hearing  the  matron  tapping  at  the  door  and  feel- 
mg  rather  anxious  to  get  ,nit,  I  said: 

"I  give  you  my  word  nf  honour  that  I  will  make 
->  h.i^.uid  read  up  all  your  case.     The  matron 


m:  I. 


AX  ArTOBfOGRAPHY 

will  give  me  your  name  and  details,  but  I  must  go 
now." 

The  VVomax  {u:ith  a  .s-inistcr  look'}:  "Oh.  no, 
you  don't !  You  stay  here  till  /  give  you  the  details: 
what  does  a  woman  like  that  care  for  a  woman  like 
me?"  {thronvu/  her  thumb  over  her  shoulder  to- 
Tcards  the  matron  behind  the  door).  "What  does 
she  know  about  life?" 

M argot:  "You  must  let  me  open  the  door  and 
get  a  pencil  and  paper." 

The  Woman:  "The  old  lady  will  do  it  for  you 
while  I  give  you  the  details  of  my  case.  You  have 
only  got  to  give  her  your  orders.  Does  she  know 
who  you  are?" 

Margot:  "Xo;  and  you  must  not  tell  her,  please. 
If  you  will  trust  me  with  your  secret.  I  will  trust 
you  with  mine;  but  you  must  let  me  out  first  if  I 
am  to  help  you." 

With  a  lofty  wave  of  mv  hand,  but  without  tak- 
ing one  step  forward,  I  made  her  move  away  from 
the  door,  which  I  opened  with  a  feeling  of  relief. 
The  matron  was  in  tlie  passage  and,  while  she  was 
fetching  a  pencil,  the  woman,  standing  in  the  d(X)r- 
way  of  her  cell,  told  me  in  lowered  tones  how  cruelly 
unlucky  she  had  been  in  life;  what  worthless,  care- 

[249] 


1  r 


>  • 


jr   *• 


:?r    i 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

less  girls  had  passed  through  her  hands;  and  how 
they  had  died  from  no  fault  of  hers,  but  through 
their  own  ignorance.    She  ended  by  saying: 
"There  is  no  gratitude  in  this  world.  .  .  ." 
When  the  matron  came  back,  she  was  much 
shocked  at  seeing  me  kiss  the  convict. 

1  said,  "Good-bye,"  and  never  saw  her  again. 
My  husband  looked  carefully  into  her  case,  but 
found  that  she  was  a  professional  ubortionist  of  the 
most  hopeless  type. 


[250] 


.15^'^:^^ 


m 


id  how 
I  rough 


much 

ain. 
e,  but 
of  the 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MAHOOT's  first  baby  and  its  loss — DANGEROUS  ILL- 
NESS— LETTER  FROM  QUEEN  VICTORIA — SIR  WIL- 
LIAM       HARCOURt'k       PLEASANTRIES ASQllTH 

MINISTRY  FALLS — VISIT  FROM   DUCHESS  d'aOSTA 

QJIR  JOHN  WILLIAMS*  was  my  doctor  and 
•^  would  have  been  a  remarkable  man  in  any 
country,  but  in  Wales  he  was  unajue.  He  was  a 
man  of  heart  without  hysteria  and  both  loyal  and 
truthful. 

On  the  I'ith  of  May,  1895,  my  sisters  Charlotte 
and  Lucy  were  sitting  with  me  in  my  bedroom.  I 
will  quote  from  my  diary  the  account  of  my  first 
confinement  and  how  I  got  to  know  him: 

"I  began  to  feel  ill.  My  fJamp  an  angular- 
faced,  admirable  old  woman  called  Jtr  isiiu  Taylor 
— 'out  of  the  Book  of  Kings' — r.'i'-^  l?  isiiin^  about 
preparing  for  the  doctor.  Henry  was  holding  luy 
hands  and  I  was  sobbing  in  an  arrr<fhair,  i-^t'ing 
•Sir  John  WUllanM,  of  Abeiystwyth,  Walea. 


J£ 


Wl 


liill 


MAKGOT  ASgUITH 

the  panic  of  pain  and  fear  which  no  one  can  real 
who  has  not  had  a  baby. 

"When  Wilhams  arrived,  I  felt  .  ,  if  salvati, 

must  he  near;  my  whole  soul  and  every  beat  of  n 

h.«rt  went  out  in  dumb  appeal  to  him,  an<l  I 

tenderness  on  that  occasion  bred  in  n.e  a  love  ar 

gratitude  which  never  faded,  but  was  intensified  I 

all  I  saw  of  him  afterwards.    He  seemed  to  thi„ 

a  narcotic  would  calm  my  nerves,  but  the  sleepim 

|^^ran^.ht  nught  have  been  water  for  all  the  effect 

had  upon  mc.  so  he  gave  me  chloroform.    The  rooi 

grew  dark;  grey  poppies  appeared  to  be  noddin, 

at  me— and  I  gasped: 

"  '«»•'  doctor,  dear  doctor,  stay  with  nv  to-night 
just  tht.  one  night,  and  I  will  si  >y  with  vou  when 
ever  you  like!' 

"But  Williams  was  too  anxious,  my  nurse  toM 
me,  to  hear  a  word  I  said. 

"At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  Henry  went  to 
fetch  the  anaesthetist  and  in  bis  absence  Williams 
took  mo  out  of  chloroform.  Then  I  seeme.l  to  have 
a  ^bmpse  of  a  diff^erent  worl.l:  if  ;;„/„  J,  ,,,1,  then 
•t  was  fuil,  if  not.  I  expect  1  got  nearer  Heaven 
than  1  have  ever  been  before. 

"I  saw  Dr.  Bailey  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  with  a 
[252] 


4'  I. 


1   . 

«*    i: 

■i 


1 


AX  Al^TOlJKKJHAPHY 

'>ap  in  his  hand,  and  Charty's  outline  against  the 
lamp;  then  my  head  was  placed  .m  the  ]iilhn\  ,ind  a 
hlaek  thin^  cnrne  l)el«een  me  and  the  li^rht  and 
closed  over  my  mouth,  a  slight  heating  of  carpets 
sounded  in  my  hrain  and  I  knew  no  more. 

"U'hcn  I  came  to  consciousness  about  twelve  the 
next  morning.  I  saw  Charty  lookinfjr  at  me  and  1 
said  to  her  m  a  strange  voice: 
"  'I  can't  have  any  more  pain,  it's  no  use.' 
"Charty:     \o,  no,  darling,  you  won't  have  any 
more.'    {Silence.) 
"Margot:    'But  you  don't  mean  it's  all  over?' 
'Charty  (sonthiiuflif) :    'Go  to  sleep,  dearest.' 
"I  was  so  dazed  by  chloroform  that  I  could  hard- 
ly speak.    Later  on  the  nurse  told  nie  that  the  doc- 
tor had  had  to  sacrifi.    my  l)aby  and  that  I  ought  to 
be  grateful  for  l)eing  spared,  as  I  had  had  a  very 
dangerous  confinement. 

"When  Sir  .John  ^Villiams  came  to  see  mc,  he 
l<K)ked  white  and  tired  and.  finding  my  temperature 
was  normal,  he  said  fervently: 
"  'Thank  you.  Mrs.  Asquith.' 
"I  was  too  weak  and  nncomfortal)le  to  realise 
nil  that  had  happened;  and  what  I  sufTc  red  from 
the  smallest  noise  I  can  hardly  describe.     I  would 


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'?     ! 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

watch  nurse  slowly  approaching  and  burst  into 
perspiration  when  her  cotton  dress  crinkled  agair 
the  chintz  of  my  bed.  I  shivered  with  fear  wh 
the  blinds  were  drawn  up  or  the  shutters  unfa; 
ened ;  and  any  one  moving  up  or  down  stairs,  plji 
ing  a  tumbler  on  the  marble  wash-hand-stand 
reading  a  newspaper  would  bring  tears  into  n 
eyes." 

In  connection  with  what  I  have  quoted  out 
my  diary  here  it  is  not  inappropriate  to  add  that 
lost  my  babies  in  three  out  of  my  five  confinemeni 
These  poignant  and  secret  griefs  have  no  place  t 
the  high-road  of  life;  but,  just  as  Henry  and  I  w 
stand  sometimes  side  bj'  side  near  those  little  grav 
unseen  by  strangers,  so  he  and  I  in  unobserved  m 
ments  will  touch  with  one  heart  an  unforgottt 
sorrow. 

Out  of  the  many  letters  which  I  received,  th 
from  our  intimate  and  affectionate  friend,  Loi 
Haldane,  was  the  one  I  liked  best: 

My  dear  Friend, 

I  cannot  easily  tell  you  how  much  touched  I  wj 
in  the  few  minutes  1  spent  talking  to  you  this  aftei 
noon,  by  what  I  saw  and  what  you  told  me.  I  lej 
with  the  sense  of  witnessing  triumph  in  failure  an 
life  come  through  death.    The  strength  that  is  give 

[254] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

at  such  times  arises  not  from  i^oring  loss,  or  per- 
suading oneself  that  the  thing  is  not  that  is;  hut 
from  the  resolute  setting  of  the  face  to  the  East  and 
the  taking  of  one  step  (mwards.  It  is  the  (juality 
we  touch — it  may  he  hut  for  a  moment — not  the 
quantity  we  have,  that  counts,  "All  I  coul*'  never 
he,  all  that  was  lost  in  me  is  yet  there — in  Hi>  hand 
who  planiif;.!  the  perfect  whole."  That  was  what 
Browning  saw  vividly  when  he  wrote  his  Rahbi  Ben 
Ezra.  You  have  lost  a  great  joy.  But  in  the  deep- 
ening and  strengthening  the  love  you  two  have  for 
each  other  you  have  gained  what  is  rarer  and  hetter; 
it  is  well  worth  the  pain  and  grief — the  grief  you 
have  borne  in  common — and  you  will  rise  stronger 
and  freer. 

We  all  of  us  are  parting  from  youth,  and  the 
horizon  is  narrowing,  but  I  do  not  feel  any  loss  that 
is  not  compensated  by  gain,  and  I  do  not  think  that 
you  do  either.  Anything  that  detaches  one,  that 
makes  one  turn  froui  the  past  and  look  simply  at 
what  one  has  to  do,  brings  with  it  new  strength  and 
new  intensity  of  interest.  I  have  no  fear  for  you 
when  I  see  what  is  absolutely  nd  urmiistakably 
good  and  noble  obliterating  even*  other  thought  as 
I  saw  it  this  afternoon.  I  w?nt  away  with 
strengthened  faith  in  what  human  nature  was 
capable  of. 

May  all  that  is  highest  and  best  lie  before  you 
both. 

Your  aff ec.  friend, 
R.  B.  Haldane. 


[255] 


li    ':      * 


M ARGOT  ASQUITII 

I  was  gradually  recovering  my  health  when  oi 
May  the  21st,  1895,  after  an  agonising  night,  Si 
John  Williams  and  Henry  came  into  my  jedroon 
between  five  and  six  in  the  morning  and  I  was  tol( 
that  I  should  have  to  lie  on  my  back  till  August,  a 
I  was  suffering  from  phlebitis;  but  I  was  too  un 
happy  and  disappointed  to  mind.  It  was  then  thai 
my  doctor,  Sir  John  Williams,  became  my  frient 
as  well  as  my  nurse,  and  his  nobility  of  charactei 
made  him  a  powerful  influence  in  my  life. 
To  return  to  my  diary: 

"Queen  Victoria  took  a  great  interest  in  my  con- 
finement, and  wrote  Henry  a  charming  letter.  She 
sent  messengers  constantly  to  ask  after  me  and  I 
answered  her  myself  once,  in  pencil,  when  Henry 
was  at  the  Home  Office. 

"I  was  convalescing  one  day,  lying  as  usual  on  my 
bed,  my  mind  a  blank,  when  Sir  William  7"ar- 
court's  card  was  sent  up  to  me  and  my  door  was 
darkened  by  his  huge  form. 

I  had  seen  most  of  my  political  and  other 
friends  while  I  was  convalescing:  Mr.  Gladstone, 
Lord  TIaldane,  Mr.  Birrell,  Lord  Spencer,  Lord 
Rosebery,  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  John 
Morley,  Arthur  Balfour,  Sir  Alfred  Lyall  and 
[256] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Admiral  Maxse;  and  I  was  delighted  to  see  Sir 
William  H;'rcoiii  \Vhen  he  came  into  my  room, 
he  observed  my  hunting-crops  hanging  on  the  wall 
from  a  rack,  and  said: 

"1  am  glad  to  see  those  whips!  Asquith  will  he 
able  to  beat  you  if  you  play  fast  and  loose  with  h"n. 
That  little  tight  mouth  of  his  convinces  me  he  has 
the  capacity  to  do  it. 

"After  my  nurse  had  left  the  room,  he  express^..! 
surprise  that  I  should  have  an  ugly  woman  near 
me,  however  good  she  might  be,  and  told  me  that 
his  son,  Bobby,  hr  been  in  love  with  his  nurse  and 
wrote  to  her  for  several  years.  He  added,  in  his 
best  Hanoverian  vein: 

"  'I  encourage  my  boys  all  I  can  in  this  line;  it 
promises  well  for  their  future.'  " 

"After  some  talk,  Mr.  John  Moriey's  card  was 
brought  up  and,  seeing  Sir  William  look  rather  sub- 
dued, I  told  the  servant  to  ask  him  to  wait  in  my 
boudoir  for  a  few  minutes  and  assured  my  guest 
that  I  was  in  no  hurry  for  him  to  go;  but  Harcourt 
began  to  fidget  about  and  after  a  little  he  insisted 
on  John  Morley  coming  up.  VVe  had  a  good  talk 
a  trots,  starting  by  abusing  men  who  minded  other 
people's  opinion  or  what  the  newspapers  said  of 

[257] 


i. 


'% 


.    ! 


i  « 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

them.  Knowing,  as  I  did,  that  hoth  of  them  wer 
highly  sensitive  to  the  Press,  I  encouraged  the  con 
versation. 

"John  Morley:  *I  can  only  say  I  agree  witl 
what  Joe  once  said  to  me,  "I  would  rather  th< 
newspapers  were  for  than  against  me."  ' 

"Sir  William  :  'My  dear  chap,  you  would  surelj 
not  rather  have  the  Daily  Chronicle  on  your  side 
Why,  bless  my  soul,  our  party  has  had  more  barn 
done  it  through  the  Daily  Chronicle  than  anything 
else!' 

"Margot:  'Do  you  think  so?  I  think  its  screams 
though  pitched  a  little  high,  are  effective!' 

"John  Morley:  'Oh,  you  like  Massingham,  oi 
course,  because  your  husband  is  one  of  his  heroes.' 
"Sir  William  :  'Well,  all  I  can  say  is  he  always 
abuses  me  and  I  am  glad  of  it.' 

"John  Morley:  'He  abuses  me,  too,  though  not, 
perhaps,  quite  so  often  as  you !' 

"Margot:  'I  would  like  him  to  praise  me.  I  think 
his  descriptions  of  the  House  of  Commons  debates 
are  not  only  true  and  brilliant  but  fine  literature; 
there  is  both  style  and  edge  in  his  writing  and  I 
rather  like  that  bitter-almond  flavour!  How 
[258] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPIIV 

strangely  the  paper  changed  over  to  Lord  Rose- 
bery,  didn't  it?' 

"Feeling  this  was  ticklish  ground,  as  ITarconrt 
thought  that  he  and  not  Rosel)ery  should  have  been 
Prime  Minister,  I  turned  the  talk  on  to  Goschen. 

"Sir  V/ili.iam  :  'It  is  sad  to  see  the  way  Goschen 
has  lost  his  hold  in  the  country;  he  has  not  been  at 
all  well  treated  by  his  colleagues.' 

"This  seemed  to  me  to  be  also  rather  risky,  so  I 
said  boldly  that  I  thought  Goschen  had  done  won- 
ders in  the  House  and  country,  considering  he  had 
a  poor  voice  and  was  naturally  cautious.  I  told 
them  I  loved  him  personally  and  that  Jowett  at 
whose  house  I  first  met  him  shared  my  feeling  in 
valuing  his  friendship.  After  this  he  took  his  de- 
parture, promising  to  bring  me  roses  from  Mal- 
wood. 

"John  Morley— the  most  fastidious  and  fas- 
cmating  of  men — stayed  on  with  me  and  suggested 
quite  seriously  that,  when  we  went  out  of  office 
(which  might  happen  any  day),  he  and  I  should 
write  a  novel  together.  He  said  that,  if  I  would 
write  the  plot  and  do  the  female  characters,  he 
would  manage  the  men  and  politics. 

[2.59] 


.(>'' 


;♦ 


•/ 


L       i\ 


:^ 


I  . 


% 


i[  I'-, 


MARGOT  ASQUITII 

I  asked  if  he  wanted  the  old  Wilkic  Collins  idea 
of  a  plot  with  a  hundred  threads  drawn  into  ope 
woof,  or  did  he  prefer  modern  nothin^iess,  a  shred 
of  a  story  attached  to  unending  analysis  and  the 
infinitely  little  commented  upon  with  elahorate  and 
pretentious  humour.    He  scorned  the  latter. 

I  asked  him  if  he  did  not  want  to  j?o  permanently 
away  from  polities  to  literature  and  discussed  all 
his  wonderful  books  and  writings.  I  chaffed  him 
about  the  way  he  had  spoken  of  me  before  our  mar- 
riage, in  spite  of  the  charming  letter  he  had  written, 
how  it  had  been  repeated  to  me  that  he  had  said 
my  light-hearted  indiscretions  '  ould  ruin  Henry's 
career;  and  I  asked  him  what  I  had  done  since  to 
merit  his  renewed  confidence. 

"He  did  not  deny  having  criticised  me,  for  al- 
though 'Honest  John' — the  name  by  which  he  went 
among  the  Radicals  —was  singularly  ill-chosen,  I 
never  heard  of  Morley  telling  a  lie.  He  was  quite 
impenitent  and  I  admired  his  courage. 

"After     an     engrossing     conversation,     every 
moment  of  which  I  loved,  he  said  good-bye  to  me 
and  I  leant  back  against  the  pillow  and  gazed  at 
the  pattern  on  the  wall. 
[260] 


'-m 


.'■■''^i 


f 

i 


AN  AUTOUIOC.UAPIIY 

"Henry  came  into  my  nxmi  sliortly  after  this  and 
told  me  the  Govcrnnjent  had  been  l)(at( ii  l)y  seven 
in  a  vote  of  censure  passed  on  C'ainphill-Hanncr- 
man  in  Supply,  in  connection  with  small  arms  am- 
munition.    I  looked  at  him  wondtriii^ly  and  said: 

"  'Are  you  sad,  darling,  that  we  are  out?' 

"To  which  he  replied: 

"  'Only  for  one  reason.  I  wish  I  hatl  completed 
my  prison  reforms.  I  have,  however,  appointed  the 
hest  committee  ever  seen,  who  will  ^n)  on  with  my 
work.  Ruggles-Brise,  the  head  of  it,  is  a  splendid 
little  fellow  1' 

"At  that  momert  he  received  a  note  to  say  he  was 
wanted  in  the  Hon.  -  of  Commons  immediately,  as 
Lord  Rosehery  had  ^cen  sent  for  by  the  Queen. 
This  excited  us  much  and,  before  he  couhl  finish 
telling  me  what  had  haj)pened.  he  went  straight 
down  to  Westminster.  .  .  .  John  Morley  had 
missed  Lhis  fateful  division,  as  he  was  sitting  with 
me,  and  Harcourt  had  only  just  arrived  at  the 
House  in  time  to  vote. 

"Henrj'  returned  at  1  a.m.  and  came  to  say  gcKxl 
night  to  me:  he  generally  said  his  prayers  by  my 
bedside.  lie  told  me  that  St.  John  Brodriek's  mo- 
tion to  reduce  C.  B.'s  salary  by  £100  had  turned  the 

[2G1] 


*ffiliT^'5«p-^l5UPw:: 


n.:iir 


'  ii 


B  '\ ' 


ill' 


MAIUJOT  ASQUITII 

Government  "tit;  that  H()stl)ery  had  resijjrned  and 
go'.c  straight  down  to  Windsor;  that  Caniphell 
Iknnernian  was  in(hgnant  and  hurt;  that  few  of  our 
nion  were  in  Mie  House;  and  that  Akers  Douj^las, 
the  Tory  Whip,  eouhl  not  heheve  his  evt  s  when  he 
handed  the  figures  to  Tom  KUis,  our  ehief  Whip, 
who  returned  them  to  him  in  silence. 

"The  next  niornifig  St.  John  Brodriek  eame  to 
see  me,  full  of  excitement  and  sympathy.  lie  was 
anxious  to  know  if  we  minded  his  being  instru- 
mental in  our  downfall;  hut  I  am  so  fond  of  him 
that,  of  course,  I  told  him  that  I  did  not  mind,  as 
a  week  sooner  or  later  makes  no  difference  and 
St.  John's  division  was  only  one  out  of  many  indi- 
cations in  the  House  and  the  country  that  our  time 
was  up.  Henry  came  back  from  the  Cabinet  in  the 
middle  of  our  talk  and  shook  his  fist  in  fun  at  'our 
enemy.'    He  was  tired,  but  good-humoured  as  ever. 

"At  3.30  Princess  ilelene  d'Orleans  came  to  see 
me  and  told  me  of  her  engagement  to  the  Due 
d'Aosta.  She  looked  tall,  black  and  distingi  shed. 
3he  spoke  of  Prince  Eddy  to  me  with  grea*  fank- 
ness.  ^  told  her  I  had  sometimes  wondered  «t  her 
devotion  to  one  less  clever  than  herself.  A'  this 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  she  explriii  i<* 

[262] 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

how  much  she  had  been  in  love  and  the  sweetness 
and  nobility  of  his  character.  1  had  reason  to  know 
tlie  truth  of  what  she  said  whe.i  one  day  Quec.i 
Alexandra,  after  talking  to  me  in  moving  terms 
of  her  dead  son,  wrote  in  my  Prayer  Book: 

"Man  1  keth  upon  the  countenance,  hut  Cuu\ 
upon  the  heart. 

"Ilelene  adores  the  Princess  of  Wales*  l)ut  not 
the  Prince!  t  and  says  the  hitter's  rudciOss  to  her 
brother,  the  Due  d'Orleans,  is  terrible.  1  said 
nothing,  as  I  am  devoted  to  tli<  Prince  .'Mid  think 
her  brodier  deserves  any  ill-t/ >  atment  he  gets.  I 
asked  her  if  she  was  afraid  of  the  future:  a  new 
country'  and  the  prospect  of  babies,  etc.  She  an- 
swered that  d'Aosta  was  so  genuinely  devoted  that 
it  would  make  everything  easy  for  her. 

"  'What  would  you  do  if  he  were  unfaithful  to 
you?'  I  asked. 

"Pkixckss  Hklene:  Oh!  I  told  Emanuel. 
...  I  said,  "Yo.i  see?  J  leave  you.  ...  If 
you  are  not  true  to  me,  I  instantly  leave  you," 
and  I  should  do  so  at  once.' 


•Queen   Alexaptlra. 
'^King  Kdwar.'  V 


[2G3] 


"^.^r.M^^^^":'^' 


M  ARGOT  ASQIITII 

"Slio  btggfd  inc  never  t(»  forget  hn,  hut  alwa; 
to  pray  for  her. 

"  *I  love  you,'  she  said,  'n^  eery  >  e  else  does 
and  with  a  wann  eiuhrace  she  Itft  .IiC  rjom. 

"She  came  of  a  handsome  family:  Hlowitz 
famous  description,  'de  loin  on  dirait  un  Prumci 
de  prh  v  i  imbecile.'  was  made  of  a  near  relation  t 
the  Duchesse   .     osta." 

•  *  •  •  •  •  . 

With  the  fall  of  the  Government  my  diary  c: 
that  year  ceases  to  have  the  smallest  interest 


[264] 


,-;i 


*  -i 


■■%   ■( 


it     1 


CHAPTER  IX 

MARCO f  IX  lOOr  SUMS  UP  IIKR  LIFE;  A  LOT  OF  hOXr.- 
MAKINO,  A  I.ITTI.E  FAME  AND  MORE  ABUSE— A 
HEAL  MAN  AMI)  GREAT  ILVPl'lNESS 

rWILL  finish  with  a  churactor-skctch  of  my- 
self copied  out  of  my  diary,  'vrittcn  nine  weeks 
Iwfore  the  birth  of  my  fifth  and  last  Imhy  in  I !»()«;, 
and  Ii»e  everythin^r  else  that  1  huvc  quoted  nt^er 
intended  for  the  public  eye: 

"I  am  not  pretty,  and  1  do  not  know  anything' 
about  my  expression,  although  I  ol)serve  it  is  this 
that  is  particularly  dwelt  upon  if  one  is  sufficiently 
plain;  but  I  hope,  when  you  feel  as  kindly  towards 
your  fellow-creatures  as  I  do,  that  some  of  that 
warmth  may  modify  an  otherwise  bright  and  rather 
knifey  contour. 

"5Iy  figure  has  remained  as  it  was:  slight,  well- 
balanced  and  active.  Being  socially  courageous  and 
not  at  all  shy,  I  think  I  can  come  into  a  nxim  as 
well  as  many  people  of  more  appearance  and  pres- 
tige. I  do  not  propose  to  treat  myself  like  Mr. 
Bernard  Shaw  in  this  account.    I  shall  neither  ex- 

[205] 


:i  •:. 


f  n 


h'  '.'\ 


!)  , 


i    i 


i  f- 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

cuse  myself  from  praise,  nor  shield  myself  from 
blame,  but  put  down  the  figures  as  accurately  as  I 
can  and  leave  others  to  add  them  up. 

"I  think  I  have  imagination,  born  not  of  fancy, 
but  of  feeling;  a  conception  of  the  beautiful,  not 
merely  in  poetry,  music,  art  and  nature,  but  in 
human  beings.  I  have  insight  into  human  nature, 
derived  not  only  from  a  courageous  experience,  but 
also  from  imagination;  and  I  have  a  clear  though 
distant  vision,  down  dark,  long  and  often  divergent 
aver;ues,  of  the  ordered  meaning  of  God.  I  take 
this  opportunity  of  saying  my  religion  is  a  vibrating 
reality  never  away  from  me;  and  this  is  all  I  shall 
write  upon  the  subject. 

"It  is  difficult  to  describe  what  one  means  by 
imagination,  but  I  think  it  is  more  than  inventive- 
ness, or  fancy.  I  remember  discussing  the  question 
with  John  Addington  Symonds  and,  to  give  him  a 
hasty  iUustration  of  what  I  meant,  I  saia  I  thought 
naming  a  Highland  regiment  'The  Black  Watch' 
showed  a  high  degree  of  imagination.  He  was 
pleased  with  this;  and  as  a  personal  testimonial  1 
may  add  that  both  he  and  Jowett  told  me  that  no 
one  could  be  as  good  a  judge  of  character  as  I  was 
[266] 


Kl        [i 


K  .., 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

who  was  without  imagination.     In  an  early  love- 
letter  to  me,  Henry  wrote : 

■'Imaginative  insight  you  have  more  than  any  one 
I  have  ever  met! 

I  think  I  am  deficient  in  one  form  of  imagina- 
tion; and  Henry  will  agree  with  this.  I  have  a 
great  longing  to  help  those  I  love:  this  leads  me  to 
intrepid  personal  criticism;  and  I  do  not  always 
know  what  hurts  my  friends'  feelings.  I  do  not 
tliink  I  should  mind  anj'thing  that  I  have  said  to 
others  being  said  to  me,  but  one  never  can  tell;  I 
have  a  good,  sound  digestion  and  personally  prefer 
knowing  the  truth;  I  have  taken  adverse  criticism 
pretty  well  all  my  life  and  had  a  lot  of  it;  but  by 
some  gap  I  have  not  succeeded  in  makingmyfriends 
take  it  well.  I  am  not  vain  or  touchy;  it  takes  a  lot 
to  offend  me ;  but  when  I  am  hurt  the  scar  remains. 
I  feel  differently  about  people  who  have  hurt  me; 
my  confidence  has  been  shaken;  I  hope  I  am  not 
ungenerous,  but  I  fear  I  am  not  really  forgiving. 
Worldly  people  say  that  explanations  are  a  mis- 
take; but  having  it  out  is  the  only  chance  any  one 
can  ever  have  of  retaining  my  love;  and  those  who 
have  neither  the  courage,  candour  nor  humbleness 

[267] 


I 


I 


.!<"     k  51 


S'i 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

to  say  they  are  wrong  are  nut  worth  loving.  I  a 
not  afraid  of  suffering  too  much  in  life,  but  mu 
more  afraid  of  feeling  too  little;  and  quarrels  mal 
me  profoundly  unhappy.  One  of  my  complain 
against  the  shortness  of  life  is  that  there  is  not  tir 
enough  to  feel  pity  and  love  for  enough  people, 
am  infinitely  compassionate  and  moved  to  my  f  ou 
dations  by  the  misfortunes  of  other  people. 

"As  I  said  in  my  1888  character-sketch,  truthfi 
ness  with  me  is  hardly  a  virtue,  but  I  cannot  di 
criminate  between  truths  that  need  and  those  th 
need  not  be  told.  Want  of  courage  is  what  mak 
so  many  people  lie.  It  would  be  difficult  for  me 
say  exactly  what  I  ain  afraid  of.  Physically  ai 
socially  not  much;  morally,  I  am  afraid  of  a  goc 
many  things :  reprimanding  servants,  bargaining 
shops;  or  to  turn  to  more  serious  matters,  the  lo 
of  my  health,  the  children's  or  Henry's.  Again 
these  last  possibilities  I  pray  in  every  recess  of  n 
thoughts. 

"With  becoming  modesty  I  have  said  that  I  a 
imaginative,  loving  and  brave !  What  then  are  n 
faults  ? 

"I  am  fundamentally  nervous,  impatient,  irrit 
ble  and  restless.    These  may  sound  slight  shortcoE 
[268] 


^sa  uift;*Li 


i"l>iiii'l    I'^'ii     iPli"HilMI«"|i| imiffllllH '      M'l     liiH   I       I       .  '■ 


AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

ings.  but  they  go  to  the  foundation  of  my  nature, 
crippling  my  activity,  lessening  my  influence  and' 
preventing  my  achieving  anything  remarkable.    I 
wear  myself  out  in  a  hundred  unnecessary  ways, 
regretting  the  trifles  I  have  not  done,  arranging 
and  re-arranging  what  I  have  got  to  do  and  what 
every  one  else  is  going  to  do,  till  I  can  hardly  eat 
or  sleep.    To  be  in  one  position  for  long  at  a  time, 
or  sit  through  bad  plays,  to  listen  to  moderate  music 
or  moderate  conversation  is  a  positive  punishment 
to  me.    I  am  energetic  and  industrious,  but  I  am  a 
little  too  quick;  I  am  driven  along  by  my  tempera- 
ment f  11 1  tire  myself  and  every  one  else. 

"I  aid  not  marry  till  I  was  th  -ty.  This  luckily 
gave  me  time  to  read;  and  I  collected  nearly  a 
thousand  books  of  my  own  before  I  married.  If 
I  had  had  real  application— as  all  the  Asquiths 
have— I  should  by  now  be  a  well-educated  woman; 
but  this  I  never  had.  I  am  not  at  all  dull,  and 
never  stale,  but  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  grind  at 
uncongenial  things.  I  have  a  good  memorj-  for 
books  and  conversations,  but  bad  for  poetry  and 
dates;  wonderful  for  faces  and  pitiful  for  names. 
"Physically  I  have  done  pretty  well  for  myself. 

[269] 


^^^^l^^^^^fiW- 


S-^yB^JJii-MI 


MARGOT  ASQUITH 

I  ride  better  than  most  prople  and  have  spent  c 
wasted  more  time  on  it  than  any  woman  of  intellet 
ought  to.  I  have  broken  both  collar-bones,  all  m 
ribs  and  my  knee-cap;  dislocated  my  jaw,  fracture 
my  skull,  gashed  my  nose  and  had  five  concussion 
of  the  brain ;  but — though  my  horses  are  to  be  sol 
next  week* — I  have  not  lost  my  nerve.  I  danc( 
drive  and  skate  well;  I  don't  skate  very  well,  but 
dance  really  well.  I  have  a  talent  for  drawing  an 
am  intensely  musical,  playing  the  piano  with 
touch  of  the  real  thing,  but  have  nefflected  hot 
these  accomplishments.  I  may  say  here  in  self 
defence  that  marriage  and  five  babies,  five  step 
children  and  a  husband  in  high  politics  have  a] 
contributed  to  this  neglect,  but  the  root  of  th 
matter  lies  deeper:  I  am  restless. 

"After  riding,  what  I  have  enjoyed  doing  most  ii 
my  life  is  writing.  I  have  written  a  great  deal,  bu 
do  not  fancy  publishing  my  exercises.  I  havi 
always  kept  a  diary  and  commonplace  books  an( 
for  many  years  I  wrote  criticisms  of  everything 
read.  It  is  rather  difficult  for  me  to  say  what  ] 
think  of  my        .  writing.    Arthur  Balfour  onc( 

•My  horses  were  sold  at  Tattersails,  June  11th,  1906. 

[270] 


AN  AUTOlJIOGRArilV 

said  that  I  was  the  best  letter-writer  he  knew: 
Henry  tells  me  I  write  well;  and  Synionds  said  I 
had  Vorcillc  juste;  but  writiii^r  of  the  kind  that  I 
like  reading  I  cannot  do:  it  is  a  lon^  apprenticeship. 
Possibly,  if  I  had  had  this  apprenticeship  forced 
upon  me  by  circumstances,  I  should  have  done  it 
better  than  anj-thinir  else.  I  am  a  careful  critic 
of  all  I  rer  1  and  I  do  not  take  my  opinions  of  books 
from  other  people;  I  have  not  got  'a  lending- 
library  mind  its  Henry  well  described  that  of  a 
friend  of  ours.  I  do  not  take  my  opinions  upon 
anything  from  other  people;  from  this  point  of 
view — not  a  very  high  one — I  might  be  called 
original. 

"When  I  read  Arthur  Balfour's  btwks  and 
essays,  I  realised  before  I  had  heard  them  dis- 
cussed what  a  beautiful  style  he  wrote.  Raymond, 
whose  intellectual  taste  is  as  fine  as  his  father's, 
wrote  in  a  paper  for  his  All  Souls  Fellowship  that 
Arthur  had  the  finest  style  of  any  living  writer;  and 
Raymond  and  Heni^  often  justify  my  literarj'^ 
verdicts. 

"From  my  earliest  age  I  have  been  a  collector: 
not  of  an>i;hing  par^'     '    '      aluable,  but  of  letters, 

[271] 


mmmm 


flHffli 


\  ■  1. 

' 

1 1|'  i 

il;';i 

i^  r^'  ^1 

MARGOT  ASQUITII 

old  photographs  of  the  family,  famous  people  and 
odds  and  ends.  I  do  not  lose  things.  Our  cigarette 
ash-trays  are  plates  from  my  dolls'  dinner-service; 
I  have  got  china,  hooks,  whips,  knives,  match-boxes 
and  clocks  given  me  since  I  was  a  small  child.  I 
have  kept  our  early  copy-books,  with  all  the  family 
signatures  in  them,  and  many  trifling  landmarks  of 
nursery  life.  I  am  painfully  punctual,  tidy  and 
methodical,  detesting  indecision,  change  of  plans 
and  the  egotism  that  they  involve.  I  am  a  little 
stern  and  severe  except  with  children:  for  these  I 
have  endless  elasticity  and  patience.  Many  of  my 
faults  are  physical.  If  I  could  have  chosen  my  own 
life — more  in  the  hills  and  less  in  the  traffic — I 
should  have  slept  better  and  might  have  been  less 
overwrought  and  disturbable.  But  after  all  I  may 
improve,  for  I  am  on  a  man-of-war,  as  a  friend  once 
said  to  me,  which  is  better  than  being  on  a  pirate- 
ship  and  is  a  profession  in  itself. 

"Well,  I  have  finished ;  I  have  tried  to  relate  of 
my  man  rs,  norals,  talents,  defects,  temptations, 
and  appearance  as  faithfully  as  I  can;  and  I  think 
there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said.  If  I  had  to  con- 
fess and  expose  one  opinon  of  myself  which  might 
[272] 


I 


AN  Al  TOlUOGHAriP. 

differentiate  me  a  little  from  other  [)e(>i)k',  I  should 
say  it  was  my  power  o"  love  eonpled  with  my  power 
of  eriticism,  hut  what  I  lack  most  is  what 
Henry  possesses  ahove  all  men:  cfiuaniinity.  niod- 
eraticn,  self-control  and  the  authority  that  comes 
from  a  perfect  sense  of  proportion.  I  can  only 
pray  that  I  am  not  too  old  or  too  stationary  to 
acquire  these. 

Marg'Vj:  Asquith. 

"P.S.  This  is  my  second  attempt  to  write  ahout 
myself  and  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  my  old  char- 
acter-sketch of  1888  is  not  the  better  of  the  two — 
it  is  more  external — but,  after  all,  what  can  one 
say  of  one's  inner  self  that  corresponds  with  what 
one  really  is  or  what  one's  friends  think  one  is? 
Just  now  I  am  within  a  few  weeks  of  my  baby's 
birth  and  am  tempted  to  take  a  gloomy  view.  I 
am  inclined  to  sum  up  my  life  in  this  way: 

"  'An  unfettered  childhood  and  triumphant 
youth;  a  lot  of  love-making  and  a  little  abuse;  a 
little  fame  and  more  abi'se;  a  real  man  and  great 
happiness;  the  lov  ludren  and  seventh  heaven; 

an  early  death  and  a  crowded  .memorial  service.' 

"But  perhaps  I  shall  not  die,  but  live  to  write  an- 

[273] 


..iWQl  .... 


"'^^"WJimmi 


MAllGOT  ASQUITII 

other  volume  of  this  diary  untl  a  better  desci'iptioii 
of  uu  improved  self." 


Begun  at  Littlettom-on-Sta, 
June  lit,  lOOn,  iiiul  finlnhed  at 
Rolhet  in  Scotland,  Au<j\ut  0th, 
in  the  iam«  year. 


THE  END 


III! 


1 

t    ' 

' 

1 

im 

B 

i 

iili 

[274] 


INDEX 


Alrxandrn,    Qurrn    .     . 

f. 

II7-H. 

Arohrr,   Fred   .... 

I. 

I!»H.  y\t. 

Artfjll,    Duke    of    .     . 

II. 

::>-',. 

.\rnoI(i,    Mattlifw      .     . 

1, 

.'or>:  II,  74. 

.\sqiiith,    Anthony    .     . 

II. 

.►W. 

.Xsquith,  .Vrthur  .     .     . 

II. 

.'.'»i-7. 

Asqnith,  Crril  .... 

II. 

.■ii-:j. 

Asquith,    Mrs.    Il.lfn    . 

II. 

rxi-y 

Asquith,  Hfrbert   Henrj 

1. 

i:.(i-7;  ,'I().  JSt.  .r»7.  J5> 

II. 

li:<.       IHi.       II<).       I9I-6 

,'3i-f>,  -'Bl. 

Aisquith,    Herliert.    Jr. 

II. 

^'-'1. 

Asquith,    Joseph    Dixon II.  fli. 

Asqnith,  Mrs.  Joseph II,  !)l-.\ 

Asquith,       Mrs.       .Mar>rot,       character 

stetihes  written  by  herself  ....  II,  77-!»,  J6S-73, 

Asquith,    H.iyniond II,  .'15-8. 

Asquith,     Violet.      See    Carter,    I.ndy 

Bonham. 

.\usUn,  Alfred II,  fil. 

Aylesbury,   Dowager   Marchioness  of  .  I,  74. 


B 

Baker,    Harold II,  :?:?2. 

Balfour,   Uiglit   Hon.    A.  J I,  iH,  351,  246-62{ 

II,  117,  Hi,  271. 

Balfour,   l.ady    Blanche I,  261. 

BaTTour,   L(uly   FranceR H,  75. 

Battersea,   Lord II,  194. 

[275] 


I/I 


!   i 


i/'i 


IT 


i  13 


W 


^  ^  m 


I ; 


II 


INDEX 

Braufort,  Duke  of I,  isi^ 

Bibwro,    PrincMa I,  JO. 

Blrrill.    Augfu.stiiM- II,  134. 

BlnvKtiky.    Madame I.  S19-S. 

lUunt,    Wilfrid I,  30. 

»".  Mm 11,  140-7. 

Rohnnian    Society II,  195. 

Border  people  and  Southern  Knglish    .  I,  40. 

Bowen,   liOrd II,  126-7. 

Brodrick,    St.    John.      See    Midleton, 
I'.arl  of. 

Bryan.    W.    J I,  214. 

Burke,  Mr.,  Murder  of I,  208. 

Bums,    Robert I,  34. 

Business  men  ....             ....  I,  33. 

Buxton,  Francis I,  183. 

C 

CampbeU-Bonnerman,    Sir    Henry    ,    .  I,  -JSi-i. 
Cantcrburj-,  Archbishop  of.  See  David 
S'    ,  Randall  T. 

Carlyle.  Jane  Welsh II,  48 

Carnegie,   Andrew II,  74. 

Carter,  Lady  Bonham II,  213-4. 

Cavendish,  ljon\  Frederick,  murder  of  I,  203. 

Cecil,  Lord   Hugh I,  237. 

Cecil.  Lord  Robert I,  237. 

Chamberlain,   Joseph I,  218-fl,  237-8. 

Chaplin,     Mrs I,  Ul,  143. 

Church    of   England I,  242. 

ChurchUl,  Lady   Randolph I,  131. 

ChurchUl,  Lord   Randolph I,  126  12;/,  208;  II,  198. 

Clarke,     Lady II,  16. 

Cbfford's   Factory I.  108-16. 

Cobden I,  231. 

Conservative  Party I,  204. 

Coquelin I,  245-6. 

C/Ountry    Conversations I,  233. 

Crewe,   Marchioness  of II,  69. 

[276] 


■'JiS»* 


198. 


INDEX 

roufh,    Mr. II,  ?  0. 

'"Hinnril.  (iordon H,      ,7. 

Carxon,  Ix)rcl n,     nj_ 

O 

I)    iticrnon,    Lord I,  "W. 

"I>aiily    C'hn>nlrlp" 11.     irt. 

Dalhousir,  Karl  of I,      il. 

DaTtdson,   Itoiidnll  T.      ArrhbUhop  of 

C*if?»Tlmry n     |0|. 

I>««»ifH>r  High,  Lord  and  fjidy  ....  II.  .10-7. 

Devnt.    ire,  Ducb»»'  of I,  117.  Jti9-17. 

Devp    i    -.-,  Duke  of I.  i.i.'-.1.  jH,  CIS. 

tHlke,  .Si     Charles I,  UN   3IR-!). 

niiMlati    <«Bient 11,  i.m. 

r^'^dpn       r,  161,  «t  t«q. 

Iwdfe''    t>  mtess   of I,  118. 

ThU.  ThoB  I-  (i,»ril(»n I,  13. 

I^Mr-30,  I>r.    Matthew* I,  97. 

B 

f  5,^rd   Vn I.  121-2,  125,  130-2. 

El«iih>,   L«rd II.  31. 

'^•KHk  €5M»n I,  181-2. 

r 

^^"^mm,  Mter il,  132,  137-90. 

^«e  T*»de I,  Jil. 

G 

Irnnm. I,  74,   77;   II,   12. 

«*r(pe  IV I,  'i27. 

-•jrtre   V I,  122. 

^  -yrman  "spies" I,  160. 

liltid^tone.  l/)rd I,  19. 

Gladstoi)*,  William  Ewart I,  105-6,  210-35;  II,  80,  118, 

193,  Mi,  232. 

Glen    .         I,  46-8. 

[277] 


/ 


\i 


•  1 


1  v  i 


IXDKX 

lilencnnner,    I/>r(l I.  U.    19-W. 

iiorilim,  Charirs  G,.  Gen II.  IM-7. 

O.nhIh-11 I.  Jill;    II.  rf4». 

(Jraf  Von  — I.  ITO-T 

Cirnharn.    IVtrr I.  44. 

(Sriintinl,  t'i>iirilit»i  of II,  SO. 

tSmitnrss,    clrinrnts    of II.  101, 

CJrrr.      ThiminH    Hill I.  HI--'. 

CJrrrr      .Irs.     1.    II II.  1. '7. 

IJiry  of   Fftllmlon.   Ni.scoiinl   .     .     .     .  II.  I-'H.  .'.»»-♦. 

Orotvenor,  Countess  of I.  1.1.1. 

H 

llaldane,    Ix>rcl I.  .»«,    II,  JaU. 

llAlclanc,     Mrs I.  i7. 

llAiiilyn.    Mrs II.  !:»-'-«. 

Harcourt.    Sir    Willimn I.  -'i-'j   H.  ii6-9. 

Ilartintrton,     Lord.     Sn>     Drvonshln-. 
Dukr  of. 

He»eltinc,    Mr I.  »• 

HUl,    Henry H.  160-1. 

HIrwh.  Baron I.  191--'0!?. 

Hirsch,    Luclin I.  193. 

Home  Hule.     Sec   Ireland. 

Homer,  Lady 1 1.  42. 

House  of  I/)rd» I.  241, 

Huxley.  T.   II H.  1^*3-7. 

I 

Ireland:    Honic   Rule  question    ...      I.  J03-7,  233;   II,   116. 

J 

James.    Henry H,  70-3. 

Jeune,    I^cly II.  116. 

Jowett,  Ur.  lUnjaiiiin I.  «1;   II,  ch.  ii  paitim 

K 

Keppel,  Hon.  Mrs.  George II.  90. 

Kimbcrley.  Lord ^  0^2. 

KUhlnian I>  206. 

[278] 


INDEX 


I^ngtry,  Mrf.  .  • 
Law,  \.  Ilonnr  .  , 
I^WMin,  ('nil  .  .  . 
t,«'onflrlil,  Ijtdy  .  . 
I^wU,  Swii  .  .  . 
I.iddfll.  A.  G.  C. 
Lnndondfrry,  l.ncly  . 
Lynll.  HIr  Alfrp-I  . 
I.yminirton,  I '>r<l  . 
Lytllfton,  Alfrrd  . 
I.yttleton.  Mr§.  Alfred  (Laurii) 


I.  117. 

I.  :»:l. 

I,  it. 
•I.  111. 
n,  177. 

I.  ;tn.  li,  ^9,  *ja. 
II,  :<H-4l. 
II.  l.'4-S. 

I,  7H. 

I.  7;  X9. 

I,  All.   49-107. 


M 


Mach,  Frau  von I.  li!'.  et  itq. 

.McKfnna,  .\1.» \\,  90. 

MnnntTs,  Ia^ti\  nnd   Lndy II,  Tll-O. 

Marsh,    Cathrrine II,  04. 

Mary,  yiiivn  «f  .Scots 11,  -•".JO. 

Mnssinfrhain,  Henry  W II.  iM- 

MHyt)rick,  Mrs II,  rM^A-2. 

.Meniircy,    Mdllc.    de I.  IM.  ««  l*q. 

Mrrr<lith.    Gforge II,  61,    67. 

Midliton,   Karl  of II,  ^6-9,  26i. 

Miller,  Sir  VVilUiun I.  1S4-91. 

Moncy-iniiking I,  33. 

Montgoinerj',   Sir  Graham I.  70-1. 

Morison,    Mnry I,  49. 

Morley,     Lord I.  W2;  II.  73-j.  Mi-S,  947- 

01. 
K 

Napier,  Hon.  Mark I,  2«,  42. 

Xftllcsliip.  Kichard  L II,  lU- 

Newiimn.  Cardinal II,  113. 

Nightingale,  Florence H.  104-7,  119. 

O 

Oliph&nt,  Laurence II>  138. 


[279] 


^Jl'O 


'S'7Sir^5!W^^r^r?rT3555f?|S^ 


INDEX 


I'  \ 


p 

Parnell,  Charles    S i,  231. 

"Peggy  Bedford"  public  house  ...  I,'  Hijls. 

Pembroke,  Earl  and  Countess  of  .    .  I,  3O;  II,  ».S2. 

Phoenix   Park  murders I,  203. 

Planchette j   jn 

PosiUvism j,  364^^ 

Prayer  written  by  Lady  Blanche  Bal- 

'our I,  263. 

Protection j^  a^i^ 

R 

Religion,  Jowett  on n,  121-2. 

Ribblesdale,  Lady I,  15,  42. 

Ribblesdale,  Lord i   jg-so 

"Robert   Elsmere" n'  107,  no,  112. 

Rosebery,  Earl  ana   Countess  of    ,    .      I,  28,  244,  247-52;  II,  111, 

198. 

Rothschild,    Lord I,  14. 

Ruggles-Brise II,  261. 


S 


f^'  ''I'll'  'i  < 


Sabbath,  Scottish  .  . 
Salisbury,  Marquis  of 
Saunderson,  Col. 
Scott,  Alexander 
Scottish  people  . 
Scottish  Sabbath  . 
Sclbome,  Earl  of 
Simpson,  Sir  James 
Smith,  Mrs.  Graham 
Society,  Jowett  on 
Souls,  The  .  .  . 
Soveral,  Marquis  of 
Spiritualism  .  . 
Spy  mania  .  .  . 
Stephen,    James    K 


[280] 


I,  57. 

I,  126-9,  210,  336-43. 

1,74. 

I,  215. 

I,  50. 

I,  57. 

I,  124. 

I,  42. 

I,  15. 

I.  115. 
n,  Ch.  I. 

I,  92. 

1.  212. 

I,  160. 
II,  5&4). 


INDEX 

StubbS,  Bishop I,  230. 

Symonds,  J.  A II,  38-41,  60-70. 

T 

Tadema,  Sir  Alma I,  75. 

Taylor,  Jerusha II,  :?51. 

Tcnnant,  Sir  Charles I,  30-35. 

Tennant,    Lady I,  35-45. 

Tennant,    FrancLs I,  18. 

Tennant,  Right  Hon.  H.  J I,  IV. 

Tennant   family I,  Ch.  I. 

Tennyson,    Lionel II,  44,  81. 

Tennyson,  Lord II,  45,  54. 

"Thunderer" I,  183. 

"Titanic" I,  157. 

ToUet,    Mi5S I,  233. 

Traquair    Kirk I,  57. 

Tubb 1,  15. 

V 

Vaughan,  Kate I,  H6. 

Victoria,  Queen I,  '211;  II,  256. 

Voltaire I,  122. 

W 

Walker,  Frederick I,  24. 

Wilter,   Arthur I,  174-6. 

W  ..iter,   Catherine I,  35. 

Ward,  Mrs.  Humphry 11,107,  110,  111. 

Webb,  Godfrey I,  62;  II,  24-5,  77. 

Welldon,     Mr II,  111. 

Wemyss  and  March,  F.arl  of  ...    .      I,  30. 

Wemyss,  Countess  of II,  88-9. 

West,  Sir  Algernon II,  S4. 

Whitman,    Phoebe I,  112-16. 

Willans    family II,  191. 

Williams,  Sir  John II,  251-2. 

Williams,  John  B. II.  191. 

[281] 


INDEX 


WUson,  J.   M.    . 
Winsloe   family  . 
Wocxl,  Inspector  . 
Wormwood  Scrubs 
Wyndham,  George 


[2821 


n.  111. 

I,  35. 
II,  161-1 
11,  1S7. 
U,  2^. 


